


(i had the world) and all that is left is stardust

by zhujungjungting (runswithchopsticks)



Category: NU'EST, Produce 101 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Smut, commitment/trust issues if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 03:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12497344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runswithchopsticks/pseuds/zhujungjungting
Summary: To someone like Minki, there was never anything more than what he could see directly in front of his eyes.





	(i had the world) and all that is left is stardust

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE FINALLY RETURNED TO MY ROOTS! I started out in the NU'EST fandom as a hardcore Baekren shipper, and look where we are now 4ish years later... harghhghg....  
> Anyways, thank you for clicking on this fic. I hope you enjoy your read. <3
> 
> music: Sunmi - If That Was You

_start_.

* * *

[ **play** ]

To someone like Minki, there was never anything more than what he could see directly in front of his eyes. There was never anything more than his quaint home in his little town, the purple chiffon and lavender perfume of his aunt, the giggly voices of his peers, the warm hand of his best friend Jisoo, and the perpetual sunset above his head.

To someone like Minki, there was nothing more that he wanted than to be content, to _stay_ content. And that was the case for him, at least, he certainly thought so -- when he tripped while running down the dirty gravel path, chasing Jisoo, and scraped his knees, he cried. But was he sad? No, those tears of his only manifested from the temporary pain, from the dirt lodged in his flesh and the stinging of the alcohol wipe that his aunt ran over the wounds. That kind of pain never lasted, and he proudly wore those two fat bandages over his knees as if they were his trophies from a victorious war.

To someone like Minki, people’s words were nothing but words until he saw those words in front of his eyes himself -- well, mostly, unless you’re his aunt. The scent of her lavender perfume was so overwhelming that Minki just _had_ to trust everything she said or else she’d be up in his face the next day. And besides, he begrudgingly admits that the woman, no matter how high and lilty her voice is, no matter how flouncy her step is, no matter how many shawls she owns of the same tones of purple, has surprisingly wise advice.

And living in such a small town, being surrounded with no other people but people just like you, kids who are nothing but kids, all small and giggly and ignorant, their faces red with the sun, grime caked under their nails from the dusty landscape, lean and gangly from running over the same dirty gravel pathways again and again, you lose yourself in life. There’s nothing there but your friends, your voice, the sky, and the air.

No matter how dirty and covered in soot his limbs may be, at least the dirt was innocent. He ignored it. Maybe, to some degree, it made him content. And hey, all his friends were covered in dirt too. Bathed in it, even. It didn’t make them look filthy, per se, it just simply made them look like _children_. Because they _were_ children.

And the townspeople were like that too. Everybody was his auntie or his uncle. A tight-knit family with no blood simmering underneath -- or, rather, a tight-knit family that _didn’t have_ the ability to boil their blood.

But those kind of communities breed ignorance. It’s never explicitly stated so, no, rather, it’s always subtle. Detectable in the slightest twitch of one’s hand, the slightest overturned gaze, the slightest droop of the corners of one’s lips. The slightest of a smile, which may or may not be insincere.

Minki was just a fool. To someone like Minki, there was never anything more than what he could see directly in front of his eyes. But sometimes, being a fool means that you can walk through life happily.

The first time he sees him is three weeks into the new school year. Minki is happily trotting down the little courtyard in his school towards the double entrance doors. He stops in his tracks when he sees a man leaning against the post supporting the roof hanging over the doors.

The boy takes a breath. This man, he’s never seen a man like this. This man, did he just step out of a movie? This man, does he know he’s not allowed to smoke at school? Who is he?

But as Minki stares, he notices that the cigarette isn’t even lit. Who would smoke an unlit cigarette? _How stupid_ , Minki thinks.

The man notices the boy staring at him, and he angles his head slightly. His gaze is hidden behind the large lens of his pitch-black sunglasses, and Minki jumps when he lifts up a hand and waves, lips curling into a smile, the cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth bobbing up and down as he does so.

Minki lifts up the corners of his lips in a shaky smile before gripping onto the arm straps of his backpack and continuing to trot on. As he passes the man, the man smiles again, shifting his position. The silver studs adorning the shiny black leather of his jacket reflect the sunlight as he does so.

The boy turns his head away. Maybe his aunt would know who he is? His aunt travels around for a living. He hopes she knows him, because then she can tell Minki this man’s story.

* * *

“He’s scary,” Jisoo whispers, tugging on Minki’s arm.

“Why do you think so?” Minki whispers back, staring at Jisoo. He frowns. “My auntie told me that you shouldn’t judge people by what they look like--”

Jisoo huffs, crossing his arms and turning his head away. Minki picks up his pencil and pokes his friend in the arm. “I think he looks normal. Like you and me.” Jisoo huffs again, but he picks up a colored pencil a second later and continues to shade in his picture of a dragon.

Minki stares across the classroom at the subject of his and Jisoo’s little dispute.

The boy sits at the corner of the table, his head down, staring at the page beneath his gaze. There’s a colored pencil poised in his hand, fist resting right over the paper, as if he were debating where to start drawing. Everything about him is dark, except for his skin -- his hair is a dark brown, almost black, hanging over his forehead like a curtain, a little bit shaggy, but tufted and soft. Even though he’s far away, Minki did get to glimpse him up close earlier -- his eyes are dark too, but not a scary dark, not the kind of dark that Minki saw in those little green aliens on that TV show that his auntie didn’t like him watching because she was scared of aliens. His lips are a little dark too. They are not a soft pink, more like a pink-purple, the kind that might occur if someone stayed out in the chilly night for too long.

But even if his coloring is a little bit dark, Minki doesn’t think that means he’s scary. For Minki to deem someone scary, they had to actually _be_ scary. And Minki doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone in his life that he could accurately describe as “scary”. Sure, there were some people that startled him, like that one police squad from the big city many kilometers away that stopped by at the convenience store down his street, with all their badges glinting in the sunlight and their dark uniforms and the pouches hanging off of their belts -- Minki had wondered, _Is there a gun in one of them?_ But anyhow, he was much more fascinated than scared, even though his auntie said that authority people try to make you scared sometimes because they need you to obey for the good of the community.

Minki sighs, and turns back to his paper.

* * *

At recess the next day, Minki sees him sitting on a rock in the far corner of the playground, staring down at his hands. He decides that he looks lonely.

Jisoo tugs on his arm. “Look,” he says, pointing in the opposite direction. “Come on, Minki, Hyerim and Jinyoung are starting a game of tag!”

Minki allows himself to be pulled along, but his gaze wavers upon the rock and its occupant for a moment longer.

* * *

“I heard his dad is a mafia boss,” Jisoo whispers, a week or so later.

Minki starts giggling. “ _What_?” he replies, his fingers curling over his lips. “Who would think that?”

Jisoo shrugs. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, staring at the object of the conversation. “But don’t you think it makes sense?”

“Have you ever seen his dad?” Minki asks, incredulously. He stares ahead of him, right across the classroom.

Jisoo shakes his head. “But I bet his dad is scary, like him. Mafia bosses are scary. You know what a mafia boss is, right?”

Minki rolls his eyes. “Yes, I do, Jisoo,” he replies, huffing. “I don’t think that his dad is a mafia boss. That’s too weird.”

“But he is!” Hyerim exclaims at him, from across the table, having overheard their conversation. “I saw his dad the other day! He’s really scary. He was super big and tall, and he had sunglasses and was wearing huge boots. I swear I saw a gun through his pocket too.” Hyerim nods vigorously, as if affirming her story.

“Hyerim, how can you see through cloth?” Minki asks, critically. He narrows his eyes.

Hyerim sighs, leaning forward. “You can see the shape, Minki, _duh_ ,” she responds. “But anyways, that’s crazy. They shouldn’t have a mafia boss’s son at this school. Who knows what he could do? They probably have lots of weapons at home. Unsafe.” She vigorously nods again.

Minki stares at the boy across the classroom, pursing his lips. A moment later, the boy’s head turns, and he meets Minki’s gaze.

Minki squeaks, ducking his head down.

* * *

At recess, he stares at the boy, who’s on his rock again. But this time, he's reading from a book sitting in his lap.

“Why do you look at him a lot?” Jisoo asks, tugging on his friend’s arm. “I don’t want to look at him.”

“What do you mean? I don’t,” Minki replies, staring at Jisoo and crossing his arms.

“Yes, you do,” Jisoo sighs, huffing. “You _do_ look at him a lot. I don’t know why you do that, Minki. It’s weird.”

“Are you calling me _weird_?” Minki asks, opening his mouth and glaring. He bares his teeth, although not in an attempt at being hostile.

Jisoo sighs, wrapping a hand around his friend’s wrist and pulling. “Come on,” he says, “just stop looking at him. Let’s ignore him. Let’s go on the swings. There’s two openings now!”

* * *

“Why do you think he never smiles?” Jisoo asks. “Actually, he never makes any faces. It’s so weird. Do you think he could be a robot?”

Minki frowns. “No,” he replies, immediately. “Maybe he isn’t very happy.”

“Maybe his dad told him not to smile,” Hyerim reasons, nodding. “After all, the heir to the throne of the mafia boss has to look scary, doesn’t he?”

“Do you really still think his dad’s a mafia boss, Hyerim?” Minki asks, still frowning.

“I don’t think he is, I _know_ he is,” Hyerim replies instantly. She puts her elbows up on the table. “How else could he be so emotionless? Or, maybe he is both a robot and a mafia heir.” She giggles, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise.

Out of the corner of his eye, Minki sees their teacher get up from her desk. She walks over to the far side of the classroom, approaching the boy. She crouches down, saying something to him softly, a very worried expression on her face. She pats him on the head at his short response, ruffling his hair slightly, before asking another question. At the boy’s even curter reply, she appears to sigh before standing up and ambling back to her desk.

The boy seems to notice someone staring at him. He turns his head, and meets Minki’s gaze again.

This time, Minki maintains eye contact for a full two seconds before ducking his head.

* * *

One day, Minki’s aunt is late picking him up from school. He’s sitting patiently in the hallway right outside the door to his classroom, back slumped against the wall, his backpack lying next to him. He stares up ahead at the opposite wall, gaze panning over the diagrams of the water cycle his class had drawn the week before.

He’s so bored that he almost falls asleep, if not for the voices he hears from inside the classroom.

“Dongho,” he hears his teacher say.

“Yes, Mrs. Park?” he hears Dongho reply.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made any friends yet?”

“No, not really.”

“Dongho, dear, why don’t you approach the other kids? They’re all very friendly, and I bet some of them would love to be your friend.”

Dongho hums. “Hmm.”

“Are you lonely? Answer me truthfully, Dongho.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you sure, dear? If there’s anything important going on with your family or something, you can feel free to tell me--”

“No, Mrs. Park, I’m really not lonely.”

* * *

In the middle of winter, Minki slips on his puffer coat. He’s one of the last ones to leave, and his auntie is late _yet again_. Sadly, none of his friends are left, and so he scrunches his nose and waits patiently at the classroom door. He sticks his head out into the hallway and nearly jumps a meter in the air at what he sees.

There’s a man standing out in the hallway. The first emotion that Minki feels is intimidation -- not necessarily fear, but more so a sense of daunting, like this man has some kind of will that he will freely exercise however he desires. The second thing Minki realizes is that he’s seen this man before -- he’s striking against the dull white walls and mottled blue carpet, bizarre against the boy’s memory and sense of deja vu.

He looks like he’s stepped out of the scene of a James Bond thriller with his studded trench coat, gritty black boots, almost dirty-looking stubble, and his _sunglasses_.

It’s the middle of winter. Why would this man be wearing sunglasses?

The man notices Minki staring. Minki doesn’t notice the man has seen him, because he can’t tell where the man is looking, for his eyes are hidden by his glasses.

The man lifts a hand and waves. Minki squeaks, ducking back inside the class.

Several seconds afterwards, he’s taken refuge inside the calming atmosphere of the familiarity of his classroom and a classmate of his bounds out of the room. Minki hardly sees anything besides a head of dark brown, almost-black hair moving past him.

“Papa!” he hears, a couple of moments later.

* * *

In the following July, he and Jisoo are at the local mart down the street from their little neighborhood. The doors swish open as they step inside, a wave of cool air and pine tree air freshener hitting them clean in their faces.

Minki sticks his hand in the pocket of his shorts, thumbing the two rough coins sitting at the bottom of the cloth. “How much do you have?” he asks Jisoo.

Jisoo glances down, digging his hand in his pocket before pulling out three coins.

Minki sighs. “Aw, lucky,” he states. “I only have two.” He pulls out the two coins in his pocket, holding them out in his palm. They’re two little silver things, rusted at the edges, the picture of the man on one of them almost indistinguishable from the rest of the coin face.

Jisoo plucks one of the coins out of his friend’s palm, giggling madly as a look of shock passes over Minki’s face. He begins running the next moment, sandals making vaguely clacking noises against the dusty tile, Minki on his tail. “Come back here!” Minki cries, chasing Jisoo down an aisle, one hand of his outstretched, a silly growl beginning on his lips.

His rascal of a friend eventually lets his guard down, but not without the stern voice of old man Taka, who had been sitting at the cash register while watching the spectacle. For such an elderly person, he sure has a loud voice, Minki thinks. It’s not cracked and thin like the voice of uncle Junsoo from down the street.

“I want fish crackers,” Jisoo states, after handing back a coin to Minki. “What are you going to buy?”

Minki shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, glancing around. “Maybe I’ll buy seaweed sticks. Or, maybe I’ll just buy Pepero.”

“Well, the Pepero is right there,” Jisoo notes, pointing in front of them. “I’m going to find my fish crackers. I’ll be back.”

Minki watches his friend amble away, his back disappearing around the corner of a shelf. He turns around, staring at the display of colorful packages in front of him. Which flavor should he buy? Chocolate? Vanilla? Strawberry?

He’s about to reach for a little paper cup of chocolate Pepero, but he hears a _swish_ coming from a ways in front of him. Raising his head, he glances in the direction of the sound, right near the cash register.

His eyebrows lift slightly.

There’s Dongho, leaning over the bright blue refrigerator, having slid open the door on top of the machine. He stares inside for a second or so, until old man Taka gruffly says, “Make your decision quickly, boy. Don’t waste electricity.” Dongho glances at old man Taka, nodding once before looking back down and reaching inside the refrigerator, pulling out a popsicle.

Minki scrunches his nose. He can clearly see the color of the ice bar because of its clear wrapper. It’s purple. _Grape_. _Gross_ , Minki thinks. Who likes grape flavor?

Without even realizing what he’s doing, Minki begins to walk up to Dongho. Dongho hears the quiet sound of footsteps approaching him, and he stares curiously, one hand holding up the popsicle.

“Why do you like grape flavor?” Minki asks, when he’s standing right in front of Dongho. “It tastes like medicine.”

Dongho frowns at him for a moment, and in that second, Minki begins to inwardly panic, all the stupid statements that Jisoo and Hyerim had been feeding him over the school year reemerging into his thoughts. But the expression on Dongho’s face passes within the next moment, and instead, it is replaced with something almost akin to a silly smile. _Almost_. Minki doesn’t know if Dongho _can_ smile, because he’s never seen the boy even lift the corners of his lips.

Dongho shrugs. “Why can’t I like things because I like them?” he asks, simply.

Minki has never heard him speak, or at least has never heard him speak this close. Where he’d once expect Dongho to sound… actually, he doesn’t know what he expected Dongho to sound like. Maybe he thought he’d sound like a robot, just like Hyerim said? Monotonous. Emotionless. Melancholy.

But no, Dongho sounds normal. He sounds like a kid.

Minki shakes his head. Of course he would. He _is_ a kid, just like Minki himself.

Dongho stares at him oddly.

“Oh,” Minki murmurs, leaning a little back on his heels. “Oh,” he murmurs, again.

Dongho is still staring, except this time he blinks. “You’d better pay for that thing soon, boy,” old man Taka says from behind them. “Or else it’s going to melt in this heat, and I’m not going to allow you to put it back in the refrigerator.”

At old man Taka’s words, Dongho immediately turns around, approaching the counter and reaching into his pocket. Minki just stares, stupefied for a moment. “Okay,” he says, to no one in particular, before awkwardly walking away.

Later, when Jisoo has his bag of fish crackers and Dongho has already left the store, Minki reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a grape popsicle.

* * *

[ **imitation** ]

In the second week of August, Jisoo holds Minki’s hands.

“I promise I’ll come visit a lot!” he says, his lips trembling up into an uneasy smile. There’s the heavy footsteps of a laborer behind them, carrying a large box with items inside that jiggle with every step he takes.

“Be careful, boys,” he says, as he passes by them, carefully lifting the box over their heads. “You two should probably move off to the side so none of us accidentally run into you guys.”

The two nod, sidestepping off of the dirty pathway in front of Jisoo’s home -- _no,_ it’s no longer his home.

“I’m going to miss you,” Minki murmurs, still holding onto Jisoo’s hands. He stares into his friend’s eyes, which are just as glassy as his, and he scrunches up his face. Jisoo’s skin is red under the sky, a smattering of freckles climbing across his nose and beneath his eyes. They fold into the color of his face as he smiles, like an expanse of stars becoming consumed by the darkness of the galaxy.

“I’m going to miss you too,” Jisoo replies. A small laugh tumbles out of his lips. “Eat lots of fish crackers for me,” he jokes, and Minki giggles softly. They lean in, giving each other hugs, and Minki all of a sudden feels dizzy at the inhale of the scent of dirt that Jisoo carries with him -- dirt, fish crackers, and his mama’s special bread rolls that she makes every weekend.

There’s a hand on his shoulder the next second, and Minki lets go of his friend, turning around. “It’s almost dinnertime, honey,” his aunt says, her voice as soft as the warmth of the color of the landscape. “We should leave Jisoo’s family to finish up their tasks.”

Minki glances at his friend standing next to him, completely unsure of what to do.

But the next second, he says, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Jisoo replies, smiling.

His aunt leads him away with a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm, reassuring, weathered.

On the walk back, Minki brings a hand up to rub at the corner of his eye. When he lifts off his hand and stares at his palm, his skin shines wetly in the sun.

This is the first time he’s ever experienced loneliness.

* * *

“This is Song Joohee,” his aunt says, her hands placed on the shoulders of a girl who’s taller than Minki.

“Hi,” Minki murmurs.

“Hi,” Joohee replies.

“You two entertain yourselves,” his aunt hums, taking her hands off of Joohee’s shoulders. “I’m going to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Song, alright?” Without another word, she disappears, a whiff of lavender and a graze of purple the only indications she ever stood there.

“This used to be Jisoo’s house,” Minki states, folding his arms.

“I know,” Joohee replies. “I’m sorry.”

Minki raises his eyebrows, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Okay,” he murmurs, his expression falling, before he softly adds, “it’s not your fault.”

Joohee closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, she smiles gently. “How old are you?”

“Eleven. Almost twelve,” Minki replies.

Joohee nods. “I’m twelve. Want to be friends?” she asks.

A slow grin appears across Minki’s lips. “Okay,” he affirms. He trots after Joohee when she says, “Follow me.”

* * *

Minki does not think loneliness is a happy emotion.

Even though he gets to see Joohee at recess, he is still lonely. Where once he could poke Jisoo with pencils, now he can’t. Sure, there’s Hyerim and Jinyoung and Youngmin, but Hyerim shrieks when he pokes her, Jinyoung starts crying, and Youngmin will attack him back. Minki doesn’t like that.

He sighs. Hyerim is shrieking now because Youngmin is chasing her with a pair of scissors, and Minki slams his face into the table. He’s too bored for his own good.

“Are you okay?”

He looks up.

Dongho stares back at him, unblinking. There’s a handful of construction paper grasped in one of his palms and three glue sticks in the other.

“Why do you need three glue sticks?” Minki asks.

“Why not?” Dongho replies, immediately. “Half of these are probably dried out.”

“Okay,” Minki murmurs, and Dongho walks away. He watches the boy’s receding back.

* * *

“Choi Minki,” Ms. Jung says, pointing to the seat right in front of her. Minki ambles over, his books grasped closely to his chest. He’s the first to sit down at his new table, and he curiously looks over at the crowd of kids standing at the back of the room, wondering who would be his new tablemates.

“Kwak Youngmin,” Ms. Jung continues. Minki grins as Youngmin takes the seat across from him, and in return, Youngmin raises his hand and wiggles his fingers sillily.

“Lee Seoyoung.” Seoyoung nearly trips on her way over to the table, but she recovers herself at the last second, giggling shakily as she wanders over to her seat. Youngmin holds out his hands for her, and she slides one of her books into his palms with a graceful “thank you”. What a gentleman.

“Kang Dongho,” Ms. Jung adds, as the fourth and final member of their table. Minki’s eyebrows raise slightly. He watches Dongho walk over and take his new seat next to Minki, his gaze slightly downturned.

“Hi,” Minki greets, quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

Dongho lifts his head. “Hi,” he returns, his voice just as soft.

* * *

Minki likes to think he’s not like Hyerim. He doesn’t get carried away too easily. He doesn’t get scared too easily.

But for some reason, he’s just a little shaky. They still say those things, the kids, even though it’s been a year since Dongho moved into their neighborhood. Maybe his dad is no longer a mafia boss, but he’s been a gang leader, the CEO of Lotte World, the descendant of the dictator of the North, a secret spy, and Park Jinyoung (“Maybe that’s why he wears sunglasses all the time?” Hyerim had speculated, “In order to hide his true identity?”)

He doesn’t believe them, of course, but that doesn’t mean that his peers don’t believe them as well. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t wonder, on occasion, if they are true.

What if Dongho really is the son of the CEO of Lotte World? What if he really is Park Jinyoung’s son? Minki’s not saying that the idea instills a little bit of fear in him, rather, it just startles him. It makes him narrow his eyes, stare at Dongho, and wonder.

And then Dongho will look at him weirdly, lean over to grab a pencil from the box in the middle of the table, murmuring a small “excuse me” as he does so, accidentally brushing Minki’s arm. And Minki will jump almost a meter in the air, the hair on his arms standing on end, a look of absolute shock passing over his face.

Dongho must think he is very weird.

Minki thinks he is just very awkward, and it makes him feel bad about himself.

He tells Joohee this one day, and she laughs at him, which only makes him feel worse. But then she sees the sad look on his face, and she tells him she’s just kidding. “Just don’t pay Dongho any attention,” she advises, “just leave him alone.”

* * *

One day, Ms. Jung is teaching them about the structure of the human heart. She gives them paper handouts of the heart. “Color the parts of the heart that transfer oxygen-rich blood as red, and color the parts that transfer oxygen-poor blood as blue,” she instructs.

 _Oxygen-rich_ , Minki thinks, _so that means the left ventricle…_ he grabs a red crayon from the box in the middle of the table and begins to color. He mentally hums as he does so, thinking about nothing in particular besides making sure the red stays within the lines. He finishes coloring all the parts he’s sure transfer oxygen-rich blood some minutes later, and sets down his red crayon  and leans across the table, trying to reach the box of crayons, which has somehow drifted closer to Youngmin’s side of the table.

As he does so, his outstretched arm bumps into Dongho’s elbow.

“Wh--” Dongho begins, his voice terribly surprised, and Minki immediately freezes. He slowly turns his head, glancing over at Dongho, who is now staring down at his paper.

And when Minki tilts his head to look at Dongho’s paper, he swallows. There’s one giant blue line across the page.

“I-I’m sorry!” he hurriedly apologizes, immediately sitting back down, biting into his bottom lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-- I just--” his hands are now up in the air, and he’s waving them back in forth in front of his face, unsure of what to do, searching for any expression of anger or tension in Dongho’s face -- almost as if he _expects_ there to be anger or tension. Youngmin and Seoyoung are now staring at him from across the table -- staring at his slightly panicked spirit. “I’m sorry!” he apologizes again, waiting for some sort of reaction from Dongho.

But instead, he gets none. Dongho just stares at him oddly -- emotionless, expressionless, unwavering. If anything, Minki feels a slight crawling of panic go up his throat _again_ , and he’s back to waving his hands to and fro.

That is, until Dongho actually _does_ do something a moment or two later.

He cracks a small smile.

“Stop,” he says, laughter threading its way through his voice. “It’s okay. It’s just a drawing.”

“Wh--” Minki begins, “but--”

“It’s just a drawing,” Dongho repeats, shrugging, turning back to his paper. “Whatever.”

Minki lets his face and his hands fall. Maybe Dongho once found him weird, but now Dongho probably dislikes him too.

He feels a little sorry for himself.

* * *

At recess, Dongho still likes to sit on his rock. In Minki’s mind, he now always refers to that rock as “Dongho’s rock”.

In the short time between the morning and lunchtime recess, Minki decided he needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. His auntie always tells him that if you do something bad, the first thing you should do is apologize, because that’s the first step to finding a solution.

So that’s what he decides he’s going to do.

He walks up to Dongho sitting on his rock. As expected, Dongho is reading a book.

But when Minki stands right in front of Dongho, he freezes. What does he say?

Dongho, sensing someone standing there, looks up. They stare at each other for several seconds, before Minki opens his mouth, intending to start with “I’m sorry for ruining your drawing”. But instead, a garbled mess falls out of his lips.

“I’m-- your-- that-- sorr-- the drawing--” And then he bites his tongue and winces, an inkling of panic crawling up his throat. In that moment, he hurriedly thinks, _What am I saying? What do I do?_

The first thing he sees is the book held in Dongho’s hands.

“Why do you like that book?”

Well, that’s a start, Minki thinks. But one of his eyes twitches, because he just had to ask _why_ Dongho liked the book when he doesn’t even know _which_ book Dongho is reading.

Dongho gives him no response. Instead, he just furrows his brows and stares, as if he were deep in thought. Minki is about to awkwardly turn away, his face heating up at his terrible, terrible attempt at apologizing, when Dongho begins to speak.

“Look,” Dongho begins, an excited smile appearing on his face -- _Wow_ , Minki thinks, _an actual smile_. Dongho holds up the book, showing off the cover. “You see?” he adds, “It’s textured!”

Sure enough, the slimey green _Goosebumps_ written across the top of the paperback is raised, a little plasticky and shiny in the yellow sunlight.

“Can I touch it?” Minki asks, his eyes wide.

Dongho nods immediately. He holds out his arms, shoving the book in Minki’s face.

Slowly, Minki runs his fingerpads over the _Goosebumps_. The texture is a little bit odd to him, as if he were touching something made out of the exact same rubber as the bouncy balls they sold in those little red vending machines. “That’s pretty cool,” he murmurs, fascinated.

Dongho nods excitedly. “Yup!” he affirms.

Minki’s heard of this series before. Jisoo mentioned it in one of his emails. _It’s really cool!_ he’d written. _But it’s really scary. You should totally read it at night._

“Do you believe in ghosts and zombies?” Minki suddenly asks.

Much to his surprise, Dongho begins to _laugh_. And Minki doesn’t know why he’s taken aback, but he thinks it’s because Dongho’s laughter sounds like _actual_ laughter, tinkling and warm and light in the golden air, even though it’d be quite stupid of him to assume otherwise. He mentally winces, but a small smile paints his lips.

“No,” Dongho answers, after a couple more seconds of laughter, “but I like them because I think they’re cool. Like, walking dead things? I think that’s pretty awesome. Do you believe in ghosts and zombies?”

Minki shakes his head. “No,” he begins, “my auntie always told me that people that believe in those things are silly.”

Dongho hums in agreement. “My papa says that too,” he notes, a relaxed smile still on his face.

Minki, for once, smiles back at him.

He decides that Dongho isn’t scary at all, but Dongho does like scary things.

* * *

[ **education** ]

Minki doesn’t know when it happens, but one day, he decides that the loneliness has left him.

* * *

The first time he meets Mr. Kang is also the first time he visits Dongho’s home.

Their residence, it’s nothing special. Nothing different than what Minki or Joohee or Youngmin live in. After all, all the homes in the area are the same. Terracotta roofs, limestone-like structures with worn wooden paneling and several layers of net screens to catch whatever ugly little flying insects and other wandering apparatuses the seasons had brought with them that year. Quaint, old, warm, sufficient.

When he stands next to Dongho, side-by-side, staring up at the gravel pathway that leads to his home, he wonders how it took so long for him to finally see his friend’s house. Dongho has already seen his aunt long ago. He’s seen the little potted plants she keeps on her porch, the wooden swing in their backyard whose nails have long rusted and paint chipped, the porcelain bowls sitting in his cupboard that were once beautiful, edges now broken and jagged and painful, the dust from the old boxes of bandaids sitting atop the refrigerator, untouched for who knows how many years.

Maybe it just slipped both of their minds.

Minki had once wondered, _Does Dongho even have a home?_

Minki has never seen Dongho’s dad -- or, at least, he hasn’t with his own eyes. He’s seen Mr. Kang through Hyerim’s eyes, but her eyesight is wonky, both literally and figuratively. And in the time he’s become friends with Dongho, he’s never heard a single mention of anything really “homely” from his lips. He never mentions a mother, a sibling, a grandparent, a pet--

He never mentions anything besides books, action figures, grape popsicles (which, Minki still dislikes), school, and Minki.

“Papa,” Dongho says, poking his head into the hallway, “Papa, are you home?”

There’s the sound of a sliding door being shut, several seconds passing before the thud of heavy footsteps against timeworn carpet approaches the two boys. Dongho shuts the door behind them. “Papa, I have Minki with me,” he says, even before anyone has appeared from the hall.

And when a man appears from behind the corner, Minki sucks in a breath.

For once, Hyerim wasn’t exaggerating.

“Sorry, my boy, I was out in the garden,” the man says, a smile appearing on his lips. He walks up to Dongho, leaning down and enveloping the boy in a brief hug.

There’s so many thoughts swimming in Minki’s head. He’s seen this man before, but he’s not sure where -- and that’s only the beginning of the amount of eccentricity he feels as his eyes wander.

_Who wears sunglasses inside their own home? He looks like he might be old. His hands are wrinkly. He’s tall, too. He has dark hair, just like Dongho. But his skin is kind of dark too. He’s big, just like Hyerim said. Does he have a gun?_

Minki’s conscious catches up to him with his last thought.

But instead of fear settling in his chest, he feels a similar emotion to the one he harbored when that police squad from the big city stopped by the mart down the street from his home.

Fascination. Curiosity. Just a little bit of tremor. As if he were staring down a person of authority. _They’ll sometimes try to make your scared,_ he hears his auntie saying, _to make you obey for the good of the community._

But when Mr. Kang lets go of his son and turns, still leaning down with his hands on his knees, and looks at Minki, his smile grows softer. Minki follows the path of his gaze -- or, rather, where Minki thinks Mr. Kang’s gaze is, because he can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses.

The next moment, Mr. Kang lifts a hand and slides his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is booming, rough, hardened, almost as if he were dishing commands, but there’s just a slight layer of hospitality that indicates otherwise. He holds out a hand, but Minki doesn’t look at it.

Minki is staring at Mr. Kang’s eyes.

He smiles with his eyes, too, Minki realizes. There’s crinkles at the meeting of his temples and eyes, just like old man Taka. His eyes are dark, darker than Dongho’s, but of course, it’s not the scary kind of dark -- it’s similar to a dark with a little bit of orange, with a little bit of raspberry, sweet and bitter and cushioned.

“You should probably shake his hand,” Dongho states, bluntly. His father laughs at his comment, his head thrown back as laughter spills from his lips, which are dark too, his voice roaring and buoyant.

Minki blinks once and takes Mr. Kang’s hand. His skin is rough, calloused, a little bit sooty-feeling, but his grip is warm.

“Nice to meet you, Minki,” Mr. Kang greets, as he shakes Minki’s hand and laughs. He stands up the next moment, letting go of Minki’s hand and letting out a small huff as he does so, sliding his sunglass back onto his face. “You two go entertain yourselves,” he says. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room, okay? I’m going to take a nap before I leave later tonight.” He grins, his smile perfect and flashing, before adding, “I’m glad my son has a friend his own age. I don’t think Dongho should spend his adolescence with an old man as his only friend.”

“ _Papa_ ,” Dongho says, pointedly, crossing his arms. Mr. Kang laughs again, before murmuring, “Okay, I’m leaving,” and promptly walking away.

“‘Old man’?” Minki asks, as Dongho leads him down the hallway.

Dongho cracks a smile, a huff falling from his lips. “Old man Chungwon,” he explains, “you know that guy that owns the foreign foods store?”

Minki nods, and Dongho continues. “He’s my neighbor. I helped him and moved some flour sacks over the summer. So now, I guess, he likes having me help him. He gives me some money sometimes.”

“Ooo,” Minki hums, “that’s cool. So you have a job. Lucky. I’d like to make money.”

Dongho shakes his head. “It’s more like a few coins here and there. He pays me in food, mostly.”

Minki laughs. “Even better,” he comments, and Dongho lets out a quiet giggle at his reply.

Even though Dongho’s home is only one story, for some reason, the floor creaks underneath their footsteps as they walk. The carpet is threadbare through Minki’s toes, worn almost flat and no longer fluffy. The walls are a dull white, nearly golden, a chip here and there in the wood. But they’re bare, empty, with no art or photographs or memories suspended from yarn hung on hooks -- just like the walls in Minki’s home. Well, except for that one overexposed black-and-white photograph of a cat Minki’s aunt had before her nephew was born sitting right next to the door to her room.

The first time Minki pokes his head into Dongho’s room, his eyes widen in amazement. The only thought occupying his head is, _There’s everything_.

Book strewn across the carpet. A large oak bookshelf in a corner, stuffed to the brim with paperbacks and hardcovers and magazines and newspapers. A desk off to the side with a fat, white-gray computer sitting on it. A small TV near the doorway, resting on the carpet, antennas extended up into the air. There’s a single black suitcase lying in front of the door to what Minki assumes is the closet. It appears to be unopened and full.

“You have your own computer and TV? That’s awesome!” Minki exclaims, gazing in wonder.

Dongho just laughs softly, sitting down in the middle of his room. “I have a DS too,” he notes, just a little bit of pride brimming over the edge of his voice, rounding out its corners and vignetting its sharpness. “Want to see?”

Minki nods vigorously, scampering over as Dongho rises and climbs over his bed, reaching for the device lying next to his pillow.

He watches Dongho poke around on the screen with the stylus, sometimes allowing Minki to try out games as well. Minki’s never held anything like this in his hands -- sure, Youngmin has a DS too, but he doesn’t let anybody touch it because of “dirty fingerprints”. Dongho shows him how to play Pokémon and Super Mario Bros, lets him pet his Nintendog, and explores the world of Animal Crossing with him. The boys spend the late afternoon and part of the evening either on the device, watching TV or videos on the computer, and eating snacks (“What’s this?” Minki had asked, holding up a bright blue and pink wrapper written in writing he can’t understand. Dongho had replied, “Flower candy. Old man Chungwon gave it to me. It’s from Japan. Try it, it kind of tastes like pure sugar with an aftertaste of perfume.” And then Minki had put it away with a grimace, because he already can’t wash out the perpetual taste of the lavender perfume his aunt wears.)

Some hours later, he gets up to go to the bathroom, ambling out of Dongho’s room and down the hallway, rubbing one of his eyes with a fist. He finds the door Dongho pointed him to, but he passes a different room right next to the bathroom, its door wide open, allowing him to peer inside.

The bed inside is made, pillow neatly sitting atop the sheets, a fluffy throw folded at the foot of the mattress. There’s a desk, a dresser, a mirror in the corner, all with objects resting upon them -- a vase with a flower, a stack of books, a small figurine of a ballerina. The curtains, a pretty cream white color, are drawn together with a satin ribbon. It’s the cleanest, most organized room Minki has seen, but for some reason, it feels just as worn as everything else he’s encountered. It feels old, lackadaisy, indulgent, the air inside it thick with something Minki can’t quite put his finger on. He briefly wonders if it’s Dongho’s mom’s room. _Where is Dongho’s mom? Maybe she’s at work._

When Minki returns, he sits down across from Dongho, and asks, “You know that room right next to the bathroom?”

Dongho looks up from the book he’d pulled out. “Yeah?” he replies, “What about it?”

“Whose is it?”

Dongho blinks for a few seconds, as if he were trying to remember something buried deep in his memory.

“Is it your mom’s?”

Dongho shakes his head. “No,” he begins, his voice void of any emotion,  as if he were a machine reciting a fact, “it’s my big sister’s.”

“Oh,” Minki murmurs, pursing his lips. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I do,” Dongho replies, quietly, nodding.

“Aw, you’re so lucky!” Minki gushes, laughing, “I wish I had a sibling. It sucks being an only child sometimes, because I get bored a lot. Your life is so awesome, you have a DS and a TV and computer in your room and you have a sister! You’re so lucky! How come you never told me about any of this?”

Dongho just shrugs once, his shoulders rising up and falling down casually. “I suppose I just forgot,” he murmurs. “My sister is away at university.”

“How’d you forget your _sister_?” Minki asks, incredulously.

“I don’t know about her,” Dongho says. He glances up once, as if trying to physically retrieve thoughts from his head. “I don’t really care about her, and I don’t think she really cares about me.”

“...Huh?”

“She’s got a different mama. She’s also been away at school since I was six, so I don’t really remember anything about her.”

“Oh,” Minki murmurs, “oh. That’s sad, I’m sorry.”

Dongho shrugs once again. He leans back, blowing a small puff of air through his lips. It lifts the ends of the hair that hangs over his forehead. “Eh. I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

Minki has always wanted a sibling, because he’s always bored at home. He’s also always lonely when left home alone, but he doesn’t tell anyone that. He’s always wanted someone just like him, someone who will run around the rusted playground, push him on the swings, hang with him upside-down off of the monkey bars. Maybe even do his homework for him.

Minki has always wanted a sibling.

But Minki thinks that if he and his sibling had a relationship like Dongho and his sister, then maybe he wouldn’t want a sibling at all.

* * *

[ **introspection** ]

Minki places his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes. “It’s Friday,” he states, matter-of-factly, tapping two of the fingers on his left hand against his hip impatiently.

Dongho doesn’t even look up from his notebook. He just shrugs. “So what?” he asks.

“I don’t like math. I don’t understand your need to take advanced math,” Minki scoffs, turning away. He walks up to the sink, placing his hands on the counter, staring out the window in front of him. There’s nothing but his street and the lawn, gray and brown and blue.

“If you have a problem with me doing homework at your place, then I’ll just leave,” Dongho replies, casually. When Minki turns to glare at his friend, he sees there’s the faintest of a smile on Dongho’s lips.

“Fine then, _leave._ I invited you over so we could play Super Smash Bros on a _Friday_ , not so you could park your ass at my dining table and pore over projectile motion and proportional inequalities.” Minki snorts, swiveling his head to look back out the window. “Overachiever.” He huffs.

Nothing but silence greets his reply. He feels a little strange not hearing Dongho’s voice retort back at him. Sure, his friend is generally soft-spoken -- _generally_. But otherwise, that means he’s either formulating an idea or brooding. Minki turns his head a second later, staring at the dining table a little ways behind him.

“What in the world are you grinning about?” he asks, when he’s greeted by a sly grin on Dongho’s lips. A moment later and Dongho still hasn’t indicated he’s going to speak, so Minki sighs and shakes his head. “Stop smiling like that, you’re creeping me out. You know, I used to think you weren’t able to--”

“You once told me you sometimes get lonely when you’re left home alone,” Dongho states bluntly, the grin never leaving his face.

Minki closes his mouth at once, but it opens the next second. He stands there, gaping like a fish, only thrown out of his stupor when Dongho begins to laugh at him.

“If I cry later tonight, it’s going to be all your fault,” he seethes, whipping his head and stalking away. The first object that comes into view is the refrigerator, and with Dongho poking fun at him, he feels just a little bit more miserable than he had before -- or, well, as miserable as a fourteen year-old boy can get. So he just slides over and opens the refrigerator door before squatting down and staring critically at its contents. _Where is that pack of honey bread? I swear there was at least a slice or two left_ , he thinks, and glances behind him. _I hope_ he _didn’t eat the last slices._

A minute into staring and judging shelves of broccoli and napa and carrots, there’s a knock on the door. Minki stands up and goes to open it.

“Hey!” he greets, smiling.

“I got what you wanted,” Joohee replies, grinning. She holds up a plastic bag. “Bell peppers and tomatoes, right?”

Minki nods. He steps aside, and Joohee whisks past him, heading for the kitchen. However, she briefly stutters in her step as she walks past the dining table. When Minki joins her at the kitchen counter, she opens the bag, avoiding her friend’s eyes, and begins to pull out vegetables. “ _He’s_ here,” she murmurs.

Minki purses his lips, remaining silent as Joohee unpacks the vegetables.

“My mom said these ones are spicy,” Joohee notes, holding a few small peppers in her hand, “so be careful.” She hums. “These ones are--”

“What’s _up_ with you?” Minki whispers, his voice almost a hiss.

Joohee bites her bottom lip, freezing. “He makes me uncomfortable,” she states, her voice hardly audible.

“It’s been like, two or three years, Joohee,” Minki immediately replies. He crosses his arms, staring at her, his voice raising. “And yet you--”

“Feel free to ask if your aunt wants any more,” Joohee interrupts. She puts on a blinding smile. “Mom and I grew a lot.” And without another word, she turns on her heel and walks out. There’s the sound of a door being opened and closed, and Minki stands there, dumbfounded.

He glances at Dongho the next moment, who seems completely and utterly unfazed, as if that entire encounter never happened, still staring down at his notebook, punching numbers into his calculator.

“I’m sorry,” Minki apologizes, after a moment. He closes his eyes for a second and takes in a deep breath.

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” Dongho replies, humming. He taps the end of his pencil on his chin and shrugs.

“But--” Minki begins, “Joohee was extremely--”

“Like I said,” Dongho interrupts, “there’s nothing for you to apologize for. Besides, my feelings aren’t hurt. Don’t worry. And I’m not just saying that to get you off of my tail.”

“How in the world are you not bothered?” Minki asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans on his left leg, the toes of his right foot lifted up in a stance of skepticism, maybe even impatience. “It’s been two years and people still treat you like you’re not a human. They’ve basically grown up with you at this point. Why do they still spread such stupid rumors about you? That you’re scary, part of a gang, you dad is in the _mafia_ \--” he snorts, “--when in reality, he’s super nice. How are you not sad or angry about any of this?”

A slow smile spreads on Dongho’s lips. It’s not really a happy smile, Minki realizes, but there’s no kind of sadness or regret in his expression either. It’s just a smile, a smile to indicate that he’s feeling something. “Well, for one, by this point, I’ve gotten used to it,” Dongho begins, “and I know myself that I’m none of the things that people say about me.” He raises his head, looking Minki in the eye, and tilts his head just slightly to the side. “Besides, if any of the things people said were true, would you be friends with me? You’re one of the last people I’d expect to want to be friendly with a ‘scary’--” he puts air quotes around the word, “--guy like me. A ‘gang member’.”

Minki sucks in a breath. “Are you saying I’m a scaredy cat?” he asks, frowning.

Dongho just throws his head back and laughs, shaking his head. “No” is the only word that comes out of his mouth.

* * *

“Why do you think he’s like that? You, of all people.”

Joohee turns her head, her fingers paused above the spine of a book.

“Maybe you’re not friendly with him, but you should at least know that he’s not the person people say he is,” Minki adds, leaning against a bookshelf. “He’s my friend. At least try to be nicer to him.”

Joohee turns back to sorting through books. “I don’t understand how you two are friends,” she begins. “Don’t you hear what they say? Sometimes my friends gossip about you too, Minki. Since you’re friends with him.”

Minki frowns at her response. “They say the same things over and over again. It’s boring and old. And why do you care about what your friends say about me? Why do you care about what others think of me in general?”

Joohee sighs, blinking slowly. She drops her hand to her side and turns to look at Minki.

To Minki, Joohee had always been somebody he could lean on, someone who could guide him through conflicts in his life even though they are nearly the same age. Joohee, for some reason, reminded Minki of a fortune teller on occasion. In short, whatever she said appeared to happen in some odd way or another, and whatever advice she gave applied at the strangest times possible. She’s shrewd beyond reason, but nobody except Minki seems to have noticed that quality.

That’s why, to him, Joohee’s actions and words are completely foreign. They leave a sense of distaste on his tongue. An ugly thing that won’t wash away, no matter how hard he scrubs.

“Because I’m your friend and I care about you. Because I don’t want others to dislike you because of one person.”

And at that moment, Joohee’s words from several years ago play once again in his ears.

_Just don’t pay Dongho any attention. Just leave him alone._

Minki blinks. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. Dongho is a great person -- he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s nice, he’s nothing like what everyone thinks he’s like. What _you_ think he’s like.” He turns on his heel and stalks away.

* * *

[ **enterprise** ]

“Seokmin! Come back here, you asshole!” Wonwoo screams as he flies down the court, chasing after Seokmin.

Minki sighs, lifting his feet as he trails on Wonwoo’s heels. Dongho is already at the end of the court, holding up his hands in case Seokmin needs to pass. He laughs as he maneuvers around Wonwoo, blocking the boy’s every step, and Wonwoo lets out a noise of astute frustration.

Seokmin and Wonwoo never fail to entertain him, Minki thinks. Two brothers that had recently moved into the neighborhood. They'd immediately taken liking to Minki, but along with Minki always came Dongho. Seokmin had initially been a little startled, maybe even afraid of Dongho and his strong stature, thick brows, dark features, and quiet stare, but at Minki and his brother's urging, he slowly grew warmer to the boy.

Minki sighs again and runs in front of Seokmin. He lunges forward, attempting to steal the ball out of Seokmin’s dribble, but alas, the latter dodges him easily.

“Keep your eye on the ball, not me,” Seokmin teases, flashing Minki a sly smile. He sidesteps Minki’s next attempt. “What’ve you got, knobs for knees?” he jokes, sticking a finger on the center of his black-rimmed glasses and pushing them up his nose. How in the world Minki hasn’t physically harmed him yet, neither of them know.

“You bastard,” Minki fake-growls through a smile. Seokmin laughs heartily at his comment, before turning tail and bounding down to the other side of the court.

“That’s not how you play basketball!” Minki shouts, giving chase, “Come back here, you four-eyed asshole!” A meter or two closer, and he can reach out his hand and dig his fingers into that idiot’s bright orange t-shirt--

“Watch o--” Minki begins, his voice beginning soft but rapidly raising volume as he skids to a stop, just a few bounds behind Seokmin. “Do-- Seo--” He watches Seokmin ram his right shoulder right into Dongho’s chest, the impact so forceful that he swears there is an actual _crash_.

“Christ!” he cries, Wonwoo simultaneously running up and yelling, “You fucking idiots!” In one moment, the two boys had collided, but in the next fraction of a second, they’d fallen to the floor, just like how one might imagine spiraling down into the bottom of a pit with all limbs splayed out, a false sense of time, and zero sense of air.

The basketball that Seokmin had once been dribbling has now rolled off somewhere off the court, but it receives not a single notion. Seokmin quickly scrambles up onto his feet, his shorts now covered in grime from the black tar, glasses and voice askew. “Holy crap, Dongho--” he begins, his words slightly garbled as he fixes his glasses. He extends a hand out to Dongho. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, are you okay? Let me--”

Dongho lies on the ground, staring up at the sky, his expression glazed over, not even glancing at Seokmin or Minki and Wonwoo, who have now gathered around the other two.

“Is he okay?” Wonwoo asks, his voice soft, as he stares down at Dongho.

“Maybe dazed,” Minki murmurs. “Wait a few--”

The air freezes, the court becoming uncharacteristically silent. If one were to bounce a basketball on the ground, Minki imagines the sound it’d make would be extremely ominous. A crow caws in the distance as the three boys watch a trickle of bright scarlet run down Dongho’s leg, stark in contrast to the white-yellow of his shin.

“ _Crap_ ,” Seokmin whispers, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to--”

Minki crouches down, nudging Dongho’s shoulder. “Dongho--” he begins, his voice slightly thicker than usual, the fingers grasping onto his friend’s shoulder black and sooty with the grimy dust the basketball had picked up. “Dongho, you’re bleeding, Dongho--”

“...What?” Dongho mutters, shaking his head the next moment. “Wait, what?”

“I’m so, so sorry!” Seokmin cries, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry--” Dongho holds up a hand, and Seokmin shuts his mouth.

“You’re bleeding,” Minki whispers, his eyebrows furrowing in concentrated worry, and he glances over at Dongho’s knee, the one raised right up to the sky. Sure enough, his skin is scraped, torn open, little bits of black grit stuck in his flesh, probably a bite from the ugly and rough tar that’s long become a hazard in more ways than one.

Dongho remains silent, maybe taking a few moments to process his friends’ words, Minki thinks, and he’s about to offer his hand.

But Dongho just cracks a grin and laughs, his voice bubbling in the thin air, masking the sounds of the crows in the distance, filling the empty space between all four of them, as if it were a balloon wrapping itself around them, cushioning them inside.

“The l-looks on all of your faces are precious,” Dongho stutters through his laughter, holding his stomach, still seemingly having absolutely no retention of the fact that he’s _bleeding_. “Especially you, Minki.”

“Shut up,” Minki says, crossing his arms and staring. “Get up, you need to get that thing bandaged and cleaned so you won’t get an infection.”

“Again, I’m so sorry--” Seokmin begins, but Dongho just shakes his head and replies, “I’m fine, don’t worry.” With a heavy sigh, he gets up on his feet, shakily taking Minki’s hand as the latter helps pull him up.

“We’ll see you two later,” Minki states, turning to Seokmin and Wonwoo. Wonwoo salutes the two, and Seokmin looks absolutely regretful as he says, “Feel better, Dongho!”

Minki helps Dongho hobble all the way to the nurse’s office. It takes a good several minutes to get there, and Dongho collapses gratefully on a cot while the two wait. The designated nurse is also an office lady, and she’s out there answering a phone call while Dongho now has multiple trails of red running down his skin. Minki grinds his teeth.

Dongho sits on the cot, facing the doorway while Minki faces the side of the room. He leans back onto a pillow, sighing, and puts up his bleeding knee. “Look,” he murmurs.

Minki turns his head, staring curiously.

Dongho nods at his knee. “Doesn’t it look kind of weird?” he notes.

“How?” Minki replies, after a moment. “It’s just blood.”

“But,” Dongho begins, slowly, his eyes flitting down to his wound, “there’s black grit from the court stuck in there. A lot of it, actually. My blood looks kind of dark and grainy like this.” He laughs softly. “I kind of feel like I’m not actually bleeding blood when I look at it -- I feel like I’m bleeding out soy paste.”

Minki shrugs. “Still looks like blood to me,” he notes, but he smiles the moment after. “Although I can see why you think that. It does look kind of weird.”

Dongho rolls his eyes, falling back onto the cot and grinning.

* * *

The wound closes into some sort of animal. Dongho calls it his new “pet”.

It’s quite a creature, Minki agrees. Stitched riverbeds of purple and brown, sucked dry and shriveled, as if baked by the stardust that falls from the sky every single day. All bumpy and purple with a somehow faded yellow border, wrinkling and folding Dongho’s skin like he’s had that leg of his extended straight for his whole life and never thought to use his joints. Rough, uneven, and textured as if he’d spent his entire existence crouched down with one knee up, digging his other joint into the gravel and grit and dirt until it just collected and collected before his skin finally cracked.

Sometimes Minki feels an odd sensation when he looks at it. He’s not quite sure what it is -- for all he knows, it might be guilt, hurt, or even something outlandish like fascination. Yet, he always stays silent when he stares at Dongho’s knee, unsure of what to say. Dongho will catch him looking at it and then promptly laugh at his friend, telling him that he looks fruitlessly guilty--whatever the hell that means--and that the wound closed, he’s no longer in pain.

The only kind of retrospection Minki manages to gain out of the whole ordeal is noticing that Dongho just has this way of reassuring people, even when it’s unnecessary. Like someone out there is always perpetually worried about him, but Minki just doesn’t know who. Maybe it’s Minki himself--yes, he does care about Dongho a lot--but it’s not necessarily born out of a sense of concern.

In actuality, he has absolutely no grasp on what he thinks of Dongho in general. Yeah, they’re friends and Minki is supposedly good at picking people apart (thanks to his aunt, who taught him the art), but even after all these years there’s just something about Dongho that is strange.

He acts nothing like what he looks like, and he looks nothing like how he acts. It’s not only that, but Minki can’t squeeze him into any sort of cookie-cutter mold that people are _supposed_ to be classified under. He’s not like Joohee, who will flip her hair over her shoulder and walk away calmly like she’s got the whole world under her hands. He’s not like Youngmin, who will put his feet up on the desk, give a relaxed grin, and toss him a pack of gum. He’s not like Hyerim, who will eagerly raise her hand when the teacher asks a question and then proceed to provide the wrong answer. He’s not like Jinyoung, who will quietly laugh from afar, scuttle up to Minki, and point out that it’s raining -- which is the most unnecessary statement _ever_ , because Minki is already soaked.

And it’s not like Minki tries to shove everyone into cookie-cutters (oh, would that be painful for both participants), but there’s so many defining traits he can name for each of his friends.

Each of his friends, except for Dongho.

Sometimes, it feels like Minki himself can mold Dongho with his own hands. As if he were nothing but dough underneath his palms, and the lines on the hands of the baker will be imprinted in the shape of the dough.

“Since when did you think so much?” Dongho asks, wrapping an arm around Minki’s bicep. “Out of the two of us, I thought I was the brooder. I’ve never seen you think this hard except for maybe one time you couldn’t find your mistake in writing a proof for an equation until you found out that you were simply forgetting an x-squared.”

Minki shakes his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“And since when were you ever sorry about anything?” Dongho notes, with a short laugh. “Come on, let’s go home.” He tugs on Minki’s arm.

His grip is warm.

* * *

“Can I get another one?”

Minki hums, reaching in the bag of hawthorne rolls sitting next to him, pulling out another piece. Without even glancing from his workbook, he lifts his hand up in the air, and a second later there’s another warm palm on his, taking the piece of candy from his grasp.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Minki cross and uncrosses his legs, letting out a small sigh as he boxes his final answer. One question down, fourteen more to go -- he's only a third of the way through. How the bastard lying on the bed above him managed to finish all his damn math homework--and _advanced_ math homework at that--before Minki was even done with his tenth problem is astounding.

Several minutes later, when Minki lets out another sigh, Dongho murmurs, “Hey.”

Minki glances up. “What?” he replies.

Dongho suddenly sits up, setting his book off to the side. The bed frame creaks as he does so, and Minki stares curiously.

“Come here. Look.”

Minki pushes himself up by his elbows. He lifts himself up and sits on the edge of Dongho’s bed. “What?”

Dongho’s leaning his back against a pillow, his knees pulled up. There’s not a terrible amount of light in his room, only the daylight filtering in from the window next to his bed, and his eyes are a gleaming color of almost-black. “Look at the scar,” he says, his voice descending in volume, and his gaze flits down to his right knee. “Touch it.”

Minki’s eyes follow, his gaze falling, landing on Dongho’s knee. Without a single word, he raises his left hand and reaches over slowly, setting his thumb lightly on the scar. And then he glances at his friend, who is completely frozen.

“Isn’t it weird?” Dongho asks. “Doesn’t it feel kind of weird?”

Minki doesn’t respond. He’s too focused on running his fingerpads all over the rugged and harsh skin, like his fingertips are the sunlight skimming over the tops of mountains, feeling every ridge and dip and inconsistency. There’s some places where the scarring is almost uniform, like three horizontal lines stacked atop one another that he can make out in the uneven lighting, while others seem as indiscriminate as the paint splattered from the whip of a brush.

Minki is still staring down at his hand, at Dongho’s skin, but his head is thrown up when he hears the beginnings of soft bouts of laughter.

There’s Dongho, his face half-shadowed from the lighting. There’s his eyes, gleaming with what light they can catch, staring back at Minki, gaze unwavering. There’s the curl of his lips, the fold of his skin as his smile breaks even wider. “It’s ticklish,” he says, through huffs.

Minki’s breaths are stuck in his throat, his lips pursed, breath pounding against his jaw like a prisoner waiting to be let out for their final meal. The palm that’s on Dongho’s knee is warm, even despite the roughness of the skin beneath it, even despite the marring which is supposedly so ugly. He stares at his friend’s laughing face, subconsciously leaning in to look closely at it, studying every detail. He scopes Dongho’s smile, the movement of his lips as he laughs, how his whole face just seems to be smiling from the action of one muscle, and Minki feels a little bit lost and suffocated, like he’s stuck in a forest shrouded in mist and humidity.

Dongho notices the look on his friend’s face and his pause in movement, and the laughter fades from his lips, wanes from his voice as his mouth slowly closes, yet his gaze is still as unwavering as ever.

Even though the smile has left his mouth, Minki still sees it everywhere. It’s in his eyes, in his temples, in his cheeks, in the lines on his face, in the breaths he takes, so soft and airy to the point where they’re almost lost in the atmosphere.

Minki closes his mouth, unaware his jaw had been hanging open. He purses his lips together and notices their texture, rough and dry, but not the kind of rough and dry that is Dongho’s scar. He stares at Dongho’s face, stares at his lips, and notices their texture too, just as dry and just as chapped as his own. One hand of his is still resting on Dongho’s right knee, and he swallows the breaths that  are trapped in his throat.

There’s still a little bit of a grin left on Dongho’s lips, however subtle and distant it may be.

Minki thinks that he’s found one of Dongho’s defining traits.

* * *

[ **adventurousness** ]

“He left me,” Joohee whispers, her face tucked into the crook of Minki’s neck, her fingers curling around the hair at his nape, “Minho left me.”

There’s no tears yet, but Minki can feel the dampness of her breath on his skin, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. “He’s too dumb for you,” he says, a huff that’s a combination of a laugh and a scoff coming out of his mouth.

He feels Joohee’s lips curl into a smile against his neck. “He’s a handsome asshole. A handsome dumbass. There’s so much better out there, Joohee.”

“I know,” Joohee whispers, her voice thin, and she takes a deep breath. “Why did I have to love someone like him?”

“Who knows,” Minki murmurs. He reaches his other hand up, running it through Joohee’s hair, stroking her temple. “All that matters now is that it’s done and over. Love is weird.”

Joohee gives a short laugh--a whisper of a laugh, if anything--and she offers a small nod. “I don’t like love,” she murmurs, “it’s so troublesome. I don’t even know why I dated him in the first place. I never wanted to love anyone.”

“I know, but these kinds of emotions get us when we least expect them,” Minki advises. Joohee sighs against him, and he feels the rise and fall of her back and sees the rise and fall of her diaphragm. They stay like that, together, huddled on the floor of a hallway, tucked into the alcove next to the lockers.

There’s the sound of steps approaching them a few minutes later. They’re a little bit heavy, a little bit echoing, almost ominous. Minki glances over, and he sees who’s walking down the hallway.

It’s Dongho, with a stack of textbooks in his hands.

Their eyes meet. Dongho offers a small nod, a sense of understanding passing between the two boys. When he walks by, there’s a brief _swish_ of air gusting across Minki and Joohee’s skin.

“You’ve never fallen in love, have you, Minki?” Joohee whispers.

“No.”

“Don’t. A relationship is not worth the effort you put into it.”

Minki smiles.

* * *

Dongho finds him lying down on the basketball court, limbs splayed out as he stares straight up at the sky.

“What’re you doing?”

“I wish it would rain,” Minki replies. “There hasn’t been rain for a long time, has there?”

“What, so you can go water your crops?” Dongho jokes, taking a seat beside him.

Minki sighs, closing his eyes. “I wish it would rain,” he repeats. And then he glances over at his right hand, lifting it up to the sky, as if his palm were pushing against the atmosphere. Pushing against the blue, against the gold, against the stardust.

Dongho remains silent. He stares at his friend quizzically, watching Minki flex his fingers up to the sky. And then Minki drops his arm back down, his head following the path of action. “Do you know where we are?” he asks.

“The basketball court?” Dongho replies, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah, but specifically this exact spot.”

“No.”

“This is where you crashed into Seokmin.”

“Oh.”

“Look, there’s your blood.”

“Is that why you’re wishing for rain?”

“I don’t know.”

“When are you going to go home? It’s already an hour past when school ended.”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Okay.” Dongho lays down beside him. “Then I don’t know too.”

Minki nods.

Barely any time passes before his eyes naturally fall closed. Dongho sees the waves of sleep wash over him, and he smiles as he dives in headfirst and chases after his friend.

They’re woken when the first droplets of rain hit their faces.

* * *

“How do you think you’ll do?”

“Terrible. Watch as they put up the results and then I’m the only person without a passing score.”

Dongho snorts. “That’s not gonna happen,” he states. “I’ll help you study.”

“And make me feel inferior while you’re at it,” Minki retorts, sighing. He rubs his forehead with a palm. “Why do we even have to do this? When in the future are we ever going to need to know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell?”

“College,” Dongho replies, simply. “They want to know that you know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

Minki sighs again and rolls his eyes. “Which schools will you submit your scores to?” he asks, leaning against the kitchen counter as he sips on a mug of hot chocolate. He needs something sweet to distract his mind from the thing looming over his head called “standardized testing”.

Dongho shakes his head. “Don’t know,” he murmurs, “probably the regional university. Maybe Andong and Incheon. Oh, and I’m going to try for Yulsan.”

Minki raises his eyebrows. “That’s private. Elite.”

“I know.”

“And all the way across the country.”

“I know.”

“And in a huge city.”

“I know that too.”

“Do you think you’ll get in?”

“I don’t know that. It’s too early to tell. Who knows, maybe in the short span of one and a half years I could end up flunking all my classes.”

“But that’s probably not going to happen. This is _you_ we’re talking about.”

Minki receives no reply. He finishes his hot chocolate and sets the mug down in the sink before turning away. “You’ll do great,” he says. “I’m going to take a nap.” He rubs his eyes. He's all of a sudden exhausted, and Dongho's stare is too much.

* * *

Dongho finds him praying in front of a little charm hanging from a thumbtack on his wall.

“I didn’t think you were that religious,” he says, a bemused smile on his face. “Not interrupting, am I?”

“No,” Minki replies, straightening his back. He places his palms on his thighs and stares up at Dongho. “Just finished.”

“What’re you praying for?” Dongho asks.

“Good test scores,” Minki hums.

Dongho breaks out in hearty laughter. “You don’t need to pray,” he says, “you’ll do just fine, I promise.”

“Says the guy who persistently gets full scores on things while simultaneously doing advanced everything,” Minki mutters, narrowing his eyes. “How do you know what failure tastes like?”

“Well, I could ask the same about you,” Dongho replies. He crouches down and takes a seat on the carpet next to his friend. “You haven’t failed anything before, have you?”

Minki shakes his head. “But I always feel like I am.”

“You’re not failing,” Dongho says, leaning back, bracing his palms behind him as he pulls his knees up. He stares, relaxed, at his friend, an almost lazy expression on his face. It’s a little bit uncharacteristic of him, as this is the kind of stance Youngmin normally takes, but Minki doesn’t feel uncomfortable with it. “Maybe you flail sometimes, but you’re not failing.”

“Thanks,” Minki replies, his voice flat.

“People receive what they expect,” Dongho hums. He leans forward, straightening his back, and places a palm on Minki’s shoulder. Minki briefly glances down at his friend’s hand before his eyes flit back up. “So expect that you’ll do fine, and you actually will.”

Nothing comes out of Minki’s lips besides a quiet “okay”.

 _People receive what they expect_.

* * *

[ **dedication** ]

“I need help,” Minki murmurs, his fingers tapping on Dongho’s shoulder.

“The test is _tomorrow_ , you idiot,” Dongho states, “and _now_ you decide that you need my help?”

Minki snorts, crossing his arms. “Well, if you’re so sour, then you can just leave,” he retorts.

“I thought you wanted me to stay here because auntie Choi is gone for the next three days as well,” Dongho hums, a smile spreading on his face. Minki wants to slap it away.

“Whatever.” Minki rolls his eyes, but he still gets up on his knees and slides over to where his desk is, pulling off a textbook. “So, uh…”

Dongho grins. “I got you.”

His friend is, well, ruthless, Minki thinks, but he inwardly knows it’s also because of his own stupidity and laziness. There’s only so much someone like him can absorb about differentials and derivatives and rhetoric devices and the results of the decline of regency -- _what_?

There’s a little shard of envy stuck inside his heart, and Minki is never one to feel envious, rather, it’s the opposite -- people are often envious of _him_ , of his tendency to lean back on his heels and laugh, of his tendency to grit his teeth and smile anyways, of his tendency to never let others hamper his grasp on himself. He often sees flaws in other people, because when you’ve grown up in such an area, there’s plenty of breeding ground for bitter thoughts and feelings. It’s just that when you’re living in this kind of community, where everybody seems to be fenced in together with no sense of time or distance, those thoughts and feelings tend to become buried underground and left to either rot to death or flourish. Much of the time, people either say everything they think or say nothing they think, hidden behind words that carry a different meaning.

It’s ignorance at its finest, and Minki overlooks it. For the most part.

He’s grown to be able to catch himself thinking these things, and he inwardly winces. He makes it seem like he’s a person with no such flaws. His peers even perpetuate that idea, because although they don’t routinely praise him, they never point out his faults.

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have any, however.

He sees the things he’s lacking in someone that he dreads the fact that they’re _that_ person.

Minki stares at Dongho. Barely an hour in and his head is already fried. He can literally _feel_ the steam rising from his brain, but Dongho is still rambling on about the possibility of discovering quantum gravity--wait, isn’t gravity a thing that already exists? Why would you need to _discover_ it?--so he just grits his teeth and forces himself to pay attention.

And then several hours later, when he’s positively _spent_ , he’s barely able to drag his feet out to the living room and collapse on the couch. He’s in too much emotional pain at the moment, and when Dongho asks him what’s for dinner, he makes a garbled noise and falls to the floor.

So his friend just laughs rudely at his state of debilitation and wanders over to the kitchen.

When he presents Minki some combination of lettuce and tomato and eggs with a side of cold noodle soup, Minki blatantly asks, “The hell is this?”

“What?” Dongho replies, raising his eyebrows.

“There’s leftover bean cakes and coconut-flavored tofu in the fridge and you give me _this_?” Minki asks, incredulously, but he shoves half an egg in his mouth anyways. “What are we, _cavemen_?”

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with something healthy once in awhile,” Dongho nonchalantly replies, side-eyeing his friend. He appears to be completely aloof, but Minki sees a teasing glint in his gaze.

He begrudgingly eats his food as Dongho turns on the TV, the device automatically picking up on some low-budget half-assed dramatic thriller with romance that’s completely unnecessary to the plot. “Gross,” Minki comments, when the male lead kisses the female lead just as she’s about to die, “why the hell are we watching this?”

Dongho could’ve answered with something along the lines of, “Would you rather watch the nightly news and hear even more complaining about the prime minister?” But instead, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “I know you like watching these things.”

Minki can’t really argue back because it’s utterly and candidly true, so what he does is shove Dongho in the arm roughly to where his friend ends up stabbing himself in the side of his mouth with a chopstick. Thankfully, Dongho generally does not fight back, which would be a pain for Minki if he did -- it’s not like Minki himself is scrawny and lacks strength, but he remembers watching Dongho move flour sacks larger than himself for old man Chungwon one summer, and if Dongho could do that at the fresh young age of thirteen, then what the hell would he be able to do at sixteen-almost-seventeen with testosterone, Redbull, and a kilogram of meat fueling his strength?

 _Strength_.

Minki stares at Dongho’s bicep and compares it to his own.

It’s obviously wider than his own, but it’s not an alarming difference. Where Minki would be somewhere between lean and toned, Dongho, although not really bulky or very broad, clearly is inclined towards _strong_ \-- which, is another terribly obvious physical attribute of him that attracts an unfavorable amount of attention. Yeah, there’s still the notion that he’s a little intimidating, although people have slowly learned to at least be responsibly polite to him and only strangers are caught off-guard. Some of the other boys at school might wish they had his stature, or they seethe because the attention of their favorite female is gravitated towards the completely “wrong” guy. Puberty and growing up in general are such odd things. They can flip your own perceived world and the world of yours that your peers perceive upside down.

However, some things never change.

People, especially in their community, have always failed to see Dongho for things past his physical appearance. Maybe they might touch upon his intelligence or his dedication to his academics, but that is only brief, and it is only when a teacher explicitly praises his work.

Minki hates it. He _loathes_ it. But some little part of him also _loves_ it, because if everybody else realizes who Dongho actually is, then there could be someone else that comes along and pushes Minki aside. There would only be Joohee left for him, but Joohee once stepped on his palm while wearing a pair of heels that his aunt gave her, and Minki is definitely not risking that again.

“What are you thinking about?” Dongho asks, suddenly.

“...What?” Minki murmurs.

“You’ve been stuck in space for the past several minutes,” Dongho notes, staring at his friend with a bit of concern. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m just tired,” Minki immediately replies. He sighs, setting down his chopsticks and leaning back on the couch. He closes his eyes, and he sees stars at the edge of his vision. His brain is still steaming.

A second later, there’s a hand on his forehead and fingers running through his hair. He doesn’t open his eyes -- he just sits there, the warmth of someone else’s skin calming.

“Just relax. I’ll the wash dishes after I finish eating.”

Minki nods. Dongho just has this way of reassuring people.

For the next few minutes, there’s no sound except for the tangled words of the drama on the TV and the noise of Dongho chewing. Minki’s mind is blank and all he sees, both literally and in his head, is black. But just as he feels the couch shift next to him, he cracks open an eye.

“I forgot,” he says.

“What?” Dongho asks, pausing his movements.

“Thank you for the meal. And thank you for helping me.”

Dongho smiles. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

He ends up falling asleep on the floor. Whatever.

He has no recollection of when or how or why, he just knows he’s fallen asleep on the floor because he wakes up in the middle of the night, the smooth plane of worn carpet beneath his palm, a blanket thrown over him, and a pillow underneath his cheek.

He just blinks, slowly, his eyesight and sense of hearing and sense of everything but _warmth_ poor. He doesn’t need to will himself back to sleep at all.

But he wakes up hardly some hours later. The room is still dark, but there’s the barest amount of light seeping through the curtains covering the windows, so it may as well be some time early in the morning.

Minki feels less drowsy than awake, but he’s still nonetheless stuck in that state where he’s just cozy, the sensation almost tempting to lure him back into sleep. He’s still on the floor, facing the couch. There’s something pressing against the top of his back, and when he turns over, he realizes that Dongho had fallen asleep next to him, inclined towards him, for his friend’s forehead was the thing that had been leaning against his back.

Minki has never seen Dongho sleep in all the years that they’ve been friends. The simple act of sleeping makes Dongho looks less… _Dongho_ , if that makes sense. He looks less striking against the dull brown carpet. Minki imagines him waking up, imagines Dongho staring him in the eye, and the first things he would notice are the individual features of his friend’s face, his gaze bouncing back and forth between them. But now, with sleep, Dongho appears to be a general guy that you would find walking down the street.

If anything, at that moment, Minki feels a terribly emotional pang in his heart. It hurts a bit, like he’s just lost something important to him, but at the same time, it’s warm and comforting, like the feeling of drinking hot milk on a cold day.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, clearing his vision. He looks down at Dongho, sees his sleeping face from a different angle and notices the steady rise and fall of his chest, a clear indicator that he’s deep in slumber.

But when his eyes travel down -- welp, this morning is just full of surprises and realizations.

Or, well, maybe it’s not a surprise. These kinds of things happen to Minki as well -- it’s normal, after all, they’re growing boys going through puberty, but he and Dongho, well, it’s not like they talk about these things on a regular basis? These kinds of thoughts rarely pass through his head -- maybe it just has to do with Minki as a person. One time, Youngmin asked him, “Hey, how big are you?” and Minki had replied, confused, “Uh, one meter seventy-six?” Youngmin just proceeded to laugh at him, made him feel like a fool, and even refused to explain why the hell he was laughing. He just patted Minki on the shoulder and said, “Okay, good luck getting chicks.” When Minki told the story to Joohee, she promptly sighed and said, “Yeah, I wish you good luck too,” before explaining to him what Youngmin meant.

Minki sighs and leans down. “Dongho,” he murmurs. When his friend doesn’t stir, Minki nudges his shoulder. “Dongho,” he says, a little louder. Dongho is only thrown into conscious when Minki speaks directly in his ear.

“Wh--” Dongho jolts suddenly, his eyes flying open. “What?” he asks, immediately, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“You’ve got morning wood,” Minki states. He cracks an awkward smile.

Dongho glances down at himself. “Oh,” he murmurs, and then he asks, “You woke me up just to tell me _that_?”

Minki stares. “...Should I not have?” he replies, quietly, after a few moments.

Dongho shakes his head. “No, it’s okay,” he assures, and sighs. Minki is still close enough that he can feel the breath Dongho exhales on his skin.

They stare at each other like that, each unsure of where to lead the conversation. There’s words that probably need to be said, but no one knows _which_ words are necessary. Minki’s vision is unfocused, he’s staring at a bunch of things at once, like Dongho’s eyes and his hair and the carpet next to his head. Even when Dongho asks him, his voice basically a whisper, “Help me?” his vision is still unfocused, and there’s not a single concern in his head when he places a hand next to Dongho’s shoulder, laying his elbow down next to Dongho’s chest, bracing himself up as his other hand rests on Dongho’s hip.

“Help me,” Dongho whispers, again, this time, his words less of a question, because Minki has already answered it. He can’t see his friend’s face, but he can feel his breaths against his neck and the warmth radiating from his skin. He just runs his palm past the waistband of Dongho’s pants, and he doesn’t think of anything while he does it -- the only thing processing in his head is his sense of touch.

Dongho’s breath hitches when Minki wraps his hand around and begins to stroke, slowly. Minki leans forward, as the pressure on his elbow all of a sudden feels too much, and he rests his chest against Dongho’s, his head dipped down towards the carpet.

Minki can’t see him, but Dongho now has his eyes closed, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, his breaths just a little more labored than before as Minki’s hand moves up and down, his fingernails scraping against skin and his touch hot.

It’s smooth, slow, the pace he works at, nothing rapid and rushed, dragging out the whole action languidly, meticulously, as if he were attempting to decorate a cake.

Their bodies are pressed together, and if anything, there’s sweat beading at Minki’s nape and down his spine. His heart is beating regularly, because for some odd reason he’s just not nervous, like this kind of action is something routine to him.

It’s not long before Dongho hits his high, and when Minki retracts his hand, he just rests it on Dongho’s stomach in all its sticky and wet glory, although at the moment he doesn’t care, and it seems that Dongho doesn’t care either. Minki just abandons the last of the strength that prevented him from collapsing completely on top of Dongho, and he hangs his head, his ear pressed against the carpet. Dongho’s shoulder is digging a bit into his collar, but he doesn’t care so much. He just lays there, silent -- _they_ lay there, silent.

And then, a few seconds later, he feels the press of a pair of lips to the side of his neck.

The feeling was much too light, much too subtle to be a kiss, but it was simultaneously much too candid to be an accident.

* * *

[ **contemplation** ]

Right after the test, when he arrives home, he collapses on the floor. Dongho lifts up a foot and gently steps on him. “You can go sleep, but not on the floor again,” he states, his arms crossed, an eyebrow raised, and one foot still on the center of Minki’s back. “At least don’t lay down in front of the entryway. Who knows? People coming through could step on you.”

“I’ll get up when you take your foot off of me,” Minki grumbles, his voice muffled as his face is pressed into the carpet.

Dongho chuckles. The mild pressure on Minki’s back is released, and he feels the slight movement of the floorboards beneath him as his friend walks away. That bastard, he didn’t even pause to help Minki up.

Minki slinks down the hall towards his bedroom, just barely managing to roll himself underneath his blanket before he falls asleep with three-fourths of his face pressed into a pillow.

He dreams of a memory. The image is so vivid that he believes events are happening over again. He can feel the gust of wind against his skin as the doors to old man Taka’s shop open with a _swish_. All his senses are alert. There’s Joohee’s laughter, and he sees her walk in.

“Hey!” he calls out, lifting an arm to wave. Joohee giggles and returns his gesture, the smile on her face giddy. Her elbow is linked with Minho’s. His lips curl into a gentlemanly grin as he looks down at her and speaks. Minki is too far away to hear their conversation, but he notices that Joohee must enjoy whatever her boyfriend just told her.

Something comes to rest on his shoulders, lying across the top of his back. “They’re quite a cute couple, aren’t they?”

Minki lifts his chin off of his fists and turns around. He shrugs. “I suppose,” he replies.

Dongho laughs softly. “What, are you jealous?” he asks. He takes his arm off of Minki’s back and grabs a candy bar off of a display on the counter.

“Pay for that,” Minki states, as Dongho unwraps the candy, “or else it’s going to come out of my salary.”

Dongho just rolls his eyes, casually nodding as he takes a bite.

Minki sighs and turns back to staring out into the store, his chin coming to rest on his fists again. “There’s something about Minho I don’t like.”

“Ah, so you are jealous,” Dongho quips. “I mean, he’s quite the competition.”

Minki thinks Dongho’s chewing is too noisy. He scrunches his nose and groans. “If you’re not going to be of help, then why in the world are you here? Go somewhere else,” he mutters.

“Thought I’d go and visit my best friend. And--” Dongho holds up the candy bar, “--candy.”

Minki just snorts, rolling his neck and raising his arms behind his back to stretch his shoulders. Lovely, his joints just cracked. It’s hardly the afternoon, but to him, it’s been the whole day. There’s not a lot of people on a Tuesday, and if there are, it’s mainly housewives and babysitters toting little children or the local bums that need another drink. It’s only the second day of the week and Minki’s sold uncle Gunho his second 12-pack of beer earlier that day. Gunho was just never the same after his wife died, and Minki pities him -- the whole town pities him. Yet, nobody will do anything to help him. They all just watch from afar, a look of worry on their faces, and they hold the hands of their children and pull them closer to their bodies.

Joohee and Minho come up to purchase several bags of popcorn. As Minki is ringing up their order, he sees Dongho reach to grab another candy bar off of the display, and without even glancing over, he promptly gives his friend’s hand a sharp slap.

Joohee laughs at the interaction. She looks like she wants to say something, but Minho promptly whisks her away, one arm wrapped around her shoulders while the other carries the plastic bag with their purchase.

“Do you think they’ll be dating for a long time?” Dongho asks once the doors have closed behind the couple.

“I don’t know,” Minki replies, humming. “I kinda hope not.”

“So you can replace Minho’s spot?” Dongho jokes. Minki looks up at him, and there’s a smug glint in his eye.

Minki’s face automatically scowls. “Why do you have this assumption that I want to date Joohee?”

Dongho shrugs. “Well, why wouldn’t you?” he replies, nonchalantly. “I mean, I know the girl doesn’t like me that much, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t like _you_. And besides, you talk about her boyfriend like he’s something that crawled out of an underground tunnel.”

Minki sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “Can’t I just dislike him? That doesn’t mean that I want to steal his girlfriend. It’s not that I find Joohee unattractive, but I don’t exactly want to date her.”

“There’s someone else on your mind?”

Minki cracks a grin. “Nah,” he hums, “I don’t want to think about dating. Romance tires me out.”

Dongho only offers him a quite “hmm”. Minki doesn’t know if that means he’s in agreement or he thinks what his friend just said is stupid.

“I just want to graduate and get out of here.”

“I do too.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.”

“What do you wanna do when you grow up?”

“A businessman, maybe. A CEO would be fun.”

“Is that why you’re so bent on making sure that your grades are sky-high?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I wish I had your commitment.”

“You probably do. You just need to find something that you actually want to commit to.”

Minki sighs, closing his eyes again. He’s tired. It’s almost his lunch break, his watch tells him.

“Come with me.”

“To where?”

“College. Let’s go to the same university.”

“...I’ll try.”

“You sound unsure. Don’t you want to live with me?” There’s a smile on Dongho’s lips and a smile in his voice.

“I can’t afford it.”

“You can try for a tuition waiver.”

“I know, I said I’ll try.”

Minki is suddenly thrown awake by something hitting his face.

Dongho is leaning over him. He’s too close. Everything around Minki is suffocating. His eyes widen.

Dongho furrows his brows. He reaches up a hand, and Minki winces as a palm touches his forehead.

“Bad dream?” Dongho murmurs. “You’re sweating a lot.”

Minki shakes his head and swallows. His tongue is dry.

“Auntie Choi is on the phone. You should go and talk to her.”

Minki nods. He swallows again. “Okay,” he rasps out.

* * *

It’s not a lie that he’s never been one for romance. There’s many more things that he _needs_ to think about, like how to earn money, how to cook, how to make sure he doesn’t flunk the hell out of his classes because he _needs_ his grades to be at the very least average so some average-rated college can pick his ass up.

This is how his aunt raised him. She raised him to be independent and to care the most for himself (with the exception of her, of course). She raised him to be unexpecting of any sort of reward for doing things that should be expected of him, like taking care of himself and taking care of the people that matter to him.

But in turn, she might’ve neglected to tell him how growing up works. Or is the act of growing up something that can’t be taught? Does “growing up” have to grow up itself in order for it to be properly understood?

Minki knows everything, but he simultaneously knows nothing.

At many points of his life, he’s just so tired that he’s bored, or he’s so bored he’s tired, or he’s just both, just extremely vexed, stretched into a thin thread with himself pulling on both ends.

That’s why he can’t care, he can’t even bother to contemplate, he can’t do anything because there’s so much more he _needs_ to do.

He just rolls off of his bed the next morning, rolls on top of Dongho, who looks like he’s ready to (jokingly) fight his friend for waking him up in such an unconventional way, until he sees the look in Minki’s eyes, until he sees the sleep laced in his lips and his lashes, until he sees the exhaustion painting his skin and the clamminess with which his fingers grasp onto his wrists.

“ _Help me_ ,” Minki whispers.

What is Dongho supposed to do besides comply?

It begins as nothing more than Dongho sliding his hands across Minki’s lower back, his skin dark-hot with sleep and slumber, and Minki’s head is falling over Dongho’s shoulder, his knees hooked over the tops of Dongho’s thighs, his arms hanging at his sides, palms pressed against the carpet, and he swears he could fall asleep all over like this.

“Okay,” he hears, the barest of a whisper in his ear, and he finally closes his eyes so that the last light is shut out of his vision as Dongho’s hands rest on his hips, his thumbs drawing circles, palms pressing themselves lower.

* * *

This is nothing but helping each other out, right?

The only thing he needs to consciously know is that he enjoys it. There’s nothing better than coming home from a tiring day at school and a few hours spent at old man Taka’s shop, and then have someone sit you in their lap, where you can fall forward and close your eyes and slip into a subconscious dream where the only things that exist are you, the person with their hands resting on your skin, and the breaths you share.

Minki returns the favor too, Dongho doesn’t even need to ask, Minki’ll just crawl over, seat himself in front Dongho with that look on his face again, and what is Dongho supposed to do besides _accept_?

They’re two boys with too much on their minds, too many things they _need_ to do and too much watery blood under their skin, rushing through their veins like the flow of a river after its dam has been broken.

Their foreheads will be pressed against each other, the breaths they inhale and exhale billowing in waves against each other’s skin, the sweat that bleeds out of their temples shared, and maybe Dongho is looking at him, maybe not, because Minki’s eyes are staring at his collar, are staring at the erratic gulps Dongho takes with each suck of his breath, and sometimes Minki might or might not wonder what would happen if he bit Dongho, but that notion never strays past what it should remain as -- simply a _thought_. There’s some invisible barrier that needs to stay a barrier, Minki thinks, feels, _knows_.

Sometimes they’ll just skip the formalities and collapse on top of each other because it’s the weekend and it’s in the death of the night, and they’ll wake up to the smell of pancakes and auntie Choi’s laughter, their hands and arms stuck up each other’s shirts, legs tangled with the sheets, skin sleep-hot, sour-sweet, and Minki sees the golden stardust stuck in Dongho’s hair, speckled in his eyes, painting his skin like the rain has fallen nowhere besides the places he’s been to and are at.

He doesn’t know how long this’ll last, if it’ll even _last_ at all, but he doesn’t care. It’s all living in the present to him, something that is new, profound, different, because all he’s ever done for as long as he can immediately remember is live in the future.

* * *

[ **benevolence** ]

“I wish it would rain,” he says, to Joohee, as they sit together on her porch, a bag of fish crackers in between them.

“I do too,” she replies, staring directly in front of her, at her golden lawn, at the brown dusty tracks, at the dirt lodged in the cracks of the sidewalk. “I don’t like the color yellow.”

Minki hums, but he’s not sure if it’s in agreement.

“How’re things going?” Joohee asks. She reaches into the bag of fish crackers and pulls out a handful, picking one up with her other hand and chewing thoughtfully.

“They’re alright,” Minki replies.

“You always say that,” Joohee points out.

“Why can’t I?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“I need water.” Minki stands up, disappearing inside Joohee’s home for a minute. He returns with a glass of water in his hand. When he sits back down, he asks, “Where’re you going for college?”

“Don’t know,” Joohee murmurs, sticking another cracker in her mouth. “Probably just the regional university. My parents and Joohyun want me to stay close.”

Minki automatically scrunches his nose, but he quickly flattens his expression the next moment. Joohee still notices, however. “What?” she asks.

“I don’t think I could ever live here for longer than I have to,” Minki states, shrugging.

“Too small?” Joohee laughs. Her laughter threads through the warm air, a flighty and chiming noise like the jingling of dainty bells.

“Yeah,” Minki replies.

“Auntie Choi okay with you going far away?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t care so much.”

“Well, lucky you. If you go far away, she’s the only person you might have to worry about leaving behind.”

“What about you?”

Joohee smiles, a little bit of a laugh tumbling out of her lips. Minki looks at her, and the smile she adorns is almost nostalgic. “Don’t worry about me,” she murmurs, shrugging. “I’ll be okay. I’ll have my family. We’ll keep in touch. Come visit me. Come back sometime and visit your former prison.”

“You speak like it’s already decided which school I’m going to.”

Joohee shrugs. She looks down at the floorboards between her knees. “I know you, Minki, and I know that you can do whatever you want.”

“I--” Minki begins, suddenly, and he jolts his head up. Joohee looks at him oddly, like lightning has just struck the ground in front of his feet, but her expression softens when she sees the regretful look on her friend’s face. “Dongho wants me to apply for Yulsan with him.”

“Are you going to?” Joohee asks, with no hesitation in her voice.

“I told him I’ll try.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Minki laughs.

“Then, do you think you can?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Joohee closes her mouth. Her eyebrows come together, as if she were studying a strange specimen under a microscope. She looks away. “I believe in you,” she says, softly, staring at the ground in front of her, “I believe in whatever decision you’ll make. I believe in you as much as you believe in yourself.”

“Thank you.”

Joohee smashes the bag of fish crackers underneath her palm. “Oh, there’s still some left,” she notes, when there’s a crunching noise beneath her hand.

* * *

They’re getting older, and the responsibilities are racking up, piling up against the door until one day when that door opens it’ll all spill onto the floor and they’ll have to pick up the pieces one by one and sort them out.

Minki sits on the counter at old man Chungwon’s shop, watching Dongho move around boxes of stock because Chungwon is getting old and Dongho actually does need a salary kind of salary now. Old man Taka chased Minki out with a broomstick when he asked if he could have any sort of raise, any sort of extra benefit, even extra candy bars because Dongho eating them whenever he comes to visit is eating a hole in his pocket, but Dongho just said he’s too money-stingy.

He sits there, stuffing another piece of flower candy in his mouth as Dongho reaches up to put some packets of instant noodles on the top shelves, and the black apron he wears folds a bit as he moves. It’s meant to fit Chungwon, who’s much more frail and much more thin.

“Thought you hated those,” Dongho notes, when he finishes and throws the box underneath the counter, eyeing the pile of discarded wrappers sitting at Minki’s side.

“Acquired taste,” Minki replies, sucking on a candy.

“Like your aunt’s perfume?” Dongho asks, with a smile on his face. Minki doesn’t know if it’s because he’s never noticed or it’s because Dongho actually is getting old, but the skin at his temples and the corners of his eyes crinkle just slightly when he smiles, just like his papa.

“I suppose,” Minki replies, humming. He swings his feet back and forth, and one of his heels ends up hitting the counter. “Oops.”

Dongho sighs, disappears to grab another box from the back of the store, and Minki stares up at the ceiling lights, at the wooden rafters, at their continuous weaving in and out.

When Dongho’s shift ends in the middle of the evening, they find themselves at the doorstep to Dongho’s house. His papa isn’t home, and Minki knows that his papa is never home at night, but he doesn’t know why. He never asks, though, because he knows Dongho’s papa is some kind of invisible barrier, a barrier that should stay a barrier, like a wall of flame that never burns out.

He kicks off his sneakers and runs into the living room, throwing himself on a couch and burying his face in the cushions with a large sigh. Dongho laughs as he walks in casually, hanging their coats on a chair, and pushes over his friend’s legs to make room for him to sit.

Minki actually gets up later and goes to cook dinner, because it’s about damn time he does something back for Dongho. He may be someone that tires out easily, some who can’t really properly grasp what stress is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a sense of dedication to the people whom he cares deeply for. Dongho comes up to him and tucks his chin on Minki’s shoulder, watching him as he flips the vermicelli in the pan, his mouth closed and his eyes trained. Minki asks him, “What do you want?” after he transfers the dish onto a plate, and Dongho scrunches his nose and replies, “Am I not allowed to watch you cook?”

Minki just sighs, brushing past him, and says, “Wash your hands in ten minutes.”

Later in the night, when dinner’s done and they’re sitting on the couch, Minki’s calves resting on top of Dongho’s thighs because _Why don’t you have a recliner?_ with a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Minki pauses, the handful of popcorn raised halfway between his lips and the bowl. He stops to think about life, because all he thinks about nowadays is life. He’s going to graduate in less than a year, he’s going to send applications to universities in less than half a year, he’s going to be leaving home in less than a year and a half.

His fingers itch.

“On a scale of one to ten, how stressed are you?” Minki asks, suddenly, his fingers uncurling themselves, and the popcorn drops back into the bowl and onto himself.

“Uh,” Dongho begins, hesitantly, “I don’t know, maybe a five?”

“ _What_?” Minki exclaims. “How are you so relaxed?”

“I could ask the same about you,” Dongho replies, nonchalantly.

“ _What_?” Minki says, again. “I’m at like an eleven out of ten, are you joking?”

“No?” Dongho raises an eyebrow. “You look perfectly fine to me. Okay, maybe sometimes the bags under your eyes look pretty bad, but otherwise, you seem fine.”

Minki narrows his eyes. “I’m freaked out like 101% of the time, how am I fine?”

Dongho shrugs. “I can’t read your mind,” he murmurs, looking away. “If you’re trying to appear like you’re okay, then it’s working.”

Minki doesn’t know if that’s what he wanted to hear, if what Dongho is saying is something that should make him happy or make him feel like he’s doing worse than he already is. He can’t make up his mind, so he just groans, digging his fingers into his hair and grasping the strands, wanting to pull them out of his head.

He doesn’t know if he’s screaming internally or externally, but his hands are covering his face, and then the next moment there’s Dongho leaning over him, pulling at his wrists, pushing him against the armrest and saying, “Please stop.”

“I can’t,” Minki whispers, his eyes wide.

“You’ll be okay,” Dongho says, with such assurance that it’s almost as if he’s already seen the future.

Minki’s head falls backwards, right over the armrest, over the side of the couch, and he closes his eyes. “ _Help me_ ,” he whispers, and it’s not like Dongho really needs to say anything, because his hand is already on Minki’s hip, warm and unrelenting.

There’s a kiss at his collarbone, and his throat is tight, the blood rushing to his head when he says, “I always want to scream.”

There’s a hand at his knee, and stars infiltrate the edge of his vision when he says, “I feel like I’m crying.”

There’s a hand on his stomach, right next to his belly button, and his mouth becomes dry as he says, “All I want to do is leave.”

There’s a billow of breath right against his skin, right next to that palm, and he shivers as he says, “What am I going to do?”

There’s silence for a moment.

Minki slowly lifts his head.

Dongho is on his knees, one palm placed on Minki’s stomach, the other one on the inside of his thigh, and his torso is inclined forward.

Minki’s vision is wavering, his head dizzy and his limbs weak. He twitches his lips, as if he wants to say something, but his mouth will not open. It refuses to do so.

Dongho moves his mouth, and what comes out is hardly a whisper. “Can I you okay?” he says, and to anyone, it’d sound like a garbled mess of nonsense, but to Minki, he fully understands, he knows that Dongho’s just trying to ask him, _Can I?_ and _Are you okay?_

So Minki just whispers back, “ _Yes_ ,” his voice almost a hiss, because it’s the answer to both of Dongho’s questions.

He hangs his head back and closes his eyes once more.

* * *

[ **retirement** ]

 _I believe in you just as much as you believe in yourself_.

Minki stares at the textbook sitting in front of his eyes. The golden light from his lamp is taxing on his eyesight, and he feels like his eyeballs are straining out of his head. He doesn’t know if he can do this, he knows nothing about multiple realities and quantum suicide, and he scoffingly thinks that quantum suicide sounds like it might be a cool way to die. His whole body is too hot, all the way from his brain to his toenails, and he turns his head and looks out the window, at his own reflection in the glass and at the neverending darkness outside. He pushes back his chair, standing up, and goes over to the window, a hand braced against the cold glass as he presses his face into the night, closing his eyes for a moment and relishing in the coolness against his cheeks and his forehead.

A minute later, he grabs his jacket off of his chair and walks out of his home.

He ends up at old man Taka’s shop.

“It is late,” Taka states, when he sees Minki walk through the sliding doors.

“I know,” Minki replies.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow, boy?”

“Yes.”

Taka blinks slowly. He tucks his hands into his wide sleeves. “I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.”

“How old are you, boy?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ah, so old. I remember seeing you when you were merely a toddler.”

Minki raises his eyebrows. It’s one thing for he himself to think that he’s old, but it’s an entire other thing for someone as elderly and withered as old man Taka to state that he’s old.

“You are going off to college soon, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Where do you think you will go?”

“I don’t know, but I hope to go far away.”

Taka smiles. His grin is still toothy despite his age. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

Minki buys nothing, but old man Taka gives him a cool can of coffee from the mini fridge sitting behind his counter.

* * *

On the weekend, he lays there on the couch with Dongho tucked up against him. He briefly wonders if this is something platonic or romantic, but he falls asleep before he lets his thoughts wander any further. He wakes up in the same position, maybe an hour or so later, and there’s Dongho right next to him still, except this time it seems that he’s in a much deeper sleep than Minki, to the point where the breaths he takes are a little bit heavy.

Minki can’t be bothered to move -- anyways, he doesn’t want to, so he just closes his eyes, and he has to will himself back to sleep, but he thinks it’s worth the effort, because there’s so many things he could put his will to instead, but sleeping right here next to Dongho seems to be the most favorable. Maybe he may not be physically tired, but his conscious certainly is, and the warmth pressed up against his arm and his torso and his chest is suffocating enough to the point where he loses enough oxygen to pass into a slumber yet again.

He spends his entire weekend like this, half-awake, sleep beading at the corners of his eyes, Dongho sometimes thrown over him, maybe not, but if he is, it’s okay, because Minki’s accustomed to it being a part of his life now. Even though he’s got homework and essays to write and shit like that, it’s all pushed aside, because he just wants to live in the present for longer than an hour. Dongho is his present, and he’s stuck.

When Dongho wakes up, Minki lazily smiles and says, “Come here,” even though Dongho is already there.

* * *

“I’m going to the regional university,” Joohee tells him.

He envelopes her in a hug. “I’m glad for you,” he whispers, in her ear, a hand threading through her hair.

Her laughter is light, although a little sorrowful. “Thank you,” she whispers back. “Have you received any letters back yet?” she asks, when they pull apart.

“No,” Minki replies.

“Did you apply early?”

“No.”

“That’s alright.” Joohee laughs again, and she places her palms on the sides of Minki’s face. She closes her eyes, and there’s a single tear that slips out of each of them, and Minki kisses her on the forehead and promises that she’ll go far in life.

* * *

[ **wisdom** ]

“Did you apply for Yulsan?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah.” Minki stuffs as much happiness he can muster into that one word.

“I hope you get accepted!”

“Yeah.” Again, more happiness.

Dongho hugs him from the side. Minki just sits there, his knees tucked up to his chest, and stares straight ahead.

* * *

“What am I going to doooooo?” Minki wails, a couple of weeks before his finals.

“Finals are literally later this month and you ask me _now_?” Dongho replies, incredulously. “Haven’t your teachers handed out reviews like, last month?”

Minki nods. “Yeah, but I did all of them and now I don’t know what to do!”

Dongho sighs. “They’re finals, you dumbo. You’ve been doing them for the past 3 years. Just do the same as whatever you did before. And besides, these are your last high school finals. Be glad.”

Minki collapses against the couch. “I guess,” he replies, sullenly, staring up at the ceiling. “That doesn’t mean that I’m not stressing about them, though.”

“Who doesn’t?” Dongho hums. He flips a page in his book and inserts a bookmark before closing the volume. “You’ll be fine. I tell you this every year, and it happens every year. You’ll be _fine_.”

Minki heaves a heavy sigh and closes his eyes.

“Hey, can I ask you something? I mean, I don’t want to put more stress on you--”

“What?”

“Did you get any letters back yet? We’re already approaching the end of the year.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Can I tell you something? I really, really don’t--”

“ _What,_ Dongho?”

“I got accepted into Yulsan.”

Minki suddenly sits up. “That’s great!” he exclaims, grinning, and he bounds over to where Dongho is sitting in his chair. “I’m so happy for you!”

Dongho laughs and leans back, his skin turning golden as it catches more of the light from the lamp hanging above him. Minki wraps him in his arms, burying his fingers in his hair, and Dongho eagerly returns his embrace, his grip firm.

Minki takes one deep breath, and he intakes the scent of Dongho and his home, and he just realizes that he’s soon going to no l--

There’s Dongho burying his face in the crook of his neck, his breath warm and a little rasped, as if his heart were beating too quickly for his bloodstream to keep up, and Minki kisses the top of his head, his thoughts forcibly washed down the drain before he stands up, fingers wrapped around Dongho’s wrists. He pulls him with him as he walks backwards, and when the backs of his thighs hit the armrest, he just laughs.

* * *

He tells Joohee the news.

Joohee smiles. “Tell him congratulations for me,” she says. “He’s really dedicated, he deserves it.”

“I thought you didn’t like him that much,” Minki jokes, cracking a grin.

Joohee shrugs, rolling her shoulders. “I mean, yeah, I didn’t,” she replies, humming. “But I’m also not a dumbass. Maybe him and I never will be friends, but him being friends with you means that he’s at least a decent person.” She sighs. “Anyways, I hope you get accepted too. I know you two are great friends. It’s wonderful to go off to college with another buddy. Makes everything so much less awkward.”

Minki chuckles. “Definitely,” he replies. “At least you won’t be the only person getting lost on campus.”

Joohee nods in agreement. “What’ll you major in? Have you looked at any programs?”

Minki shrugs. “Don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe advertising. Like my aunt. She can teach me.”

“But her kind of salespeople are getting rarer and rarer nowadays,” Joohee replies, worriedly. “You make sure you take on a good career, okay? Or else I’ll be worried. From across the country.”

Minki laughs sourly. “You don’t need to remind me,” he begins, “my aunt talks about declining interest and declining money all the time. I’m just glad I’ll be able to get out soon.”

Joohee holds his hands. “Okay,” she replies, “I’m glad too.”

* * *

Minki is going to go crazy. Is he already going crazy? Or is he crazy and only just realized it?

He thrums his fingers against his chest. They make hollow sounds, and he can feel pressure on the bone beneath his skin. Finals are over. The upcoming week is the last week of school. The spring-summer heat is suffocating. He inhales dust with every breath he takes.

Joohee has already left. She promised that they'd remain good friends. She promised that they'd see each other again. She promised that he'd be at her wedding and made him promise that she would be at his.

Minki saw her pack her suitcase. He even helped her by sitting on top of it as she zipped it down. He watched her little brother, Joohyun, cry as he saw his older sister take their family truck and drive away. Minki held Joohyun’s hand. It had been wet with wiped tears.

Dongho asked him if he was sad. Minki said no.

He really isn't sad, despite what his aunt and Dongho and Joohee’s parents think. Maybe he is sad, but that sadness has bled into his exhaustion. He barely looks up when a customer walks into old man Taka’s shop, and he's too tired to slap away Dongho's hand when he reaches for his third candy bar.

Minki just wants to leave. He’s so close. His limbs itch, and sometimes his movements are erratic. Maybe he even bounces around emotionally to some degree.

There are things he will miss. He's going to miss his aunt, of course, but she said she's going to find work near him. He's going to miss Joohee's mom and dad. They treat him like he's their second son. He's going to miss old man Taka, even though he once chased him with a broom.

He might as well miss some part of the area, too. In a small place, it's easy to get around. It's safe, for the most part. Walk a kilometer and you've found yourself downtown where everything is located. You can do so as a small child, as a female, during the night, and you'll be okay.

He feels like that might be the only remotely advantageous aspect of an area like this.

One day, he's sitting on the counter at old man Chungwon’s shop. He sees a truck pull up to the front, kicking up dust with its gritty tires. The front is dented, blue paint chipped.

Minki’s vision throbs. It looks exactly like Joohee's truck. But alas, the lady who steps out of it looks nothing like Joohee.

She walks through the door, the bell tied to the handle jingling as it opens. She slides her sunglasses up to her head, and the frames tuck back her hair.

“Hi,” she begins, approaching Minki. “Do you sell maps here?”

“Yeah,” Minki replies. He points to a white vinyl display near the counter. “That's all of them we've got.”

She hums her thanks, walking over and sorting through the selection. “I just moved here,” she notes, a small smile on her face. “This is quite a beautiful town.”

“I suppose so,” Minki replies, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks.

“My whole life.”

“Oh, wow. I suppose you like it here, huh?”

Minki inwardly snorts. “I suppose. What brings you here?”

“Just wanted somewhere nice for my family and I.”

“That's wonderful.”

“I have a son. He's just starting high school. I hope we can finally settle here, since moving around while you're in high school isn't terrible convenient.”

“That is true. It's a hassle.”

At that moment, Dongho reappears from the back of the shop. “Oh?” he murmurs, when he sees Minki conversing with the lady.

“Came here looking for maps, so I pointed her to them,” Minki replies casually.

The woman, noticing Dongho's apron, quickly gasps. “Oh, do you not work here?” she asks, turning to Minki. “I'm so sorry! I just assumed that since you were--”

“Not a problem,” Minki hums, waving her off. “I hang around here often enough that I probably should work here.”

The woman chuckles. She picks up the map she's looking for, and Dongho rings it up for her. “So I suppose I'll see you around?” she asks, having paid.

Minki shakes his head. “I'm going off to college soon,” he says. “Graduation is this weekend.”

“Congratulations,” the woman hums, a soft smile breaking across her face. “My other son recently graduated too, although it was a struggle.” She laughs. “He didn't pick up his feet until his senior year. Nearly flunked before. But now he's going to one of the top trade schools in this country, so I'm a happy mother.”

Minki smiles. “That's wonderful.”

The woman nods. “I'd better get going,” she notes. “It was nice meeting you. Have fun at college!”

Later in the afternoon, Minki finds Dongho in the storage room. He grabs onto Dongho's wrists, his fingers clammy. He has that look again, and Dongho stares.

“W-What--” he begins, “--here?”

Minki coughs.

After talking to that woman, his head never ceased to throb.

He backs Dongho up against the wall and buries his face into the side of his neck and inhales.

He mouths, _Please help me._

* * *

[ **reconciliation** ]

“I'm going to Yulsan,” Dongho repeats.

“I know,” Minki repeats.

It is an invisible barrier that should remain a barrier. Dongho knows that.

Minki presses him against the couch, breathes into the crook of his neck, his fingers curling over the hair at his nape, and he sees nothing but black and stardust.

“I’m going to Yulsan.”

Minki doesn't reply.

* * *

On a day in the middle of summer, Minki stands next to his desk. He's staring out the window at nothing in particular, maybe at his faint reflection, maybe at the golden dust that's settled on the glass and mottles it like it's some speckled creature.

He glances down at his desk. There's a packet of papers sitting on the edge. He reads the first few words.

_Name, date of birth, address…_

He places his palm on the packet and slides it off of the desk, right into the wastebin waiting patiently on the floor, its metal jaws wide and inviting.

* * *

On a day in the middle of summer, Minki calls Joohee.

They catch up. She tells him about the people she's met, about the roads she sees, about how the cafeteria actually has good food.

Minki tells her about his time wilting away at either old man Taka or old man Chungwon's shops, about how there was a sandstorm the other day, about how Dongho nearly tripped on his robe at graduation.

When Joohee says she has to go, Minki asks her one final question.

“Do you live on campus?”

* * *

On a day in the middle of summer, Minki holds Dongho's hands.

The edges of Dongho's hair are soft against the early morning light. The area hasn't yet become completely engulfed in gold, but Dongho's skin is nonetheless tinted yellow. They're standing in the front of Dongho's home, and Minki’s toes are cold, but his fingers are warm.

Minki studies Dongho's face, how his features are so dark, but not the scary kind of dark. How his features are so striking against the background, even though the area is not necessarily dull. How when he smiles, his eyes, nose, and temples smile too.

There's a little tug at Minki's heart, the kind of feeling that makes you want to lean forward and spill into another person's arms, pepper their face with kisses, and cradle their cheeks in your palms. But instead, when he leans forward, he presses the side of his left cheek to Dongho's right, his hands coming up and resting on the back of his friend's head, fingers threading through his hair. He closes his eyes, and he almost slips into a subconscious dream.

When he pulls back, Dongho is still smiling at him, smiling that little smile of his that indicates that he's feeling _something_ , and Minki holds his face in his hands, his thumbs stroking the skin beneath his eyes.

He stands like that for a few moments, and he almost leans in and kisses Dongho, but he doesn't, because he needn't and he couldn't. The sun is rising over their heads, slowly, painting the sky more and more gold, and Minki sees the stardust fall on Dongho's cheeks and clump onto his lashes. When Dongho blinks, some of it cascades downwards, staining Minki's fingertips and speckling his arms.

“I'm going to Yulsan,” Dongho says, his voice level.

“I know,” Minki whispers, a smile breaking across his face.

Dongho places his palms on Minki's hands and pulls them off, cradling them in his grip.

“Bye,” he says.

“Bye,” Minki returns.

He's the one to let go of their grip, and when Dongho walks away, the stardust follows him.

To someone like Minki, there was never anything more than what he could see directly in front of his eyes.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the lovely [Shirimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirimikaze/profile) for annotating this work even though she probably has way too much shit to do, haha.


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